


A penchant for melodrama

by luna65



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1977, Angst and Humor, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Addiction, Infidelity, Missing Scenes, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Everything, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Everything, and the usual shenanigans, band politics, drunken escapades, everyone has to be extra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 37,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: Queen sets out to conquer America...but still hasn't quite figured out how to master its' own emotional excesses.





	1. Scene One: In which one conflicted guitarist has his usual misgivings

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a few things but primarily the _Made In America_ documentary of the '77 American tour and the "experiences" portrayed in "It's Late."
> 
>  
> 
> “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”  
> Oscar Wilde
> 
> History's third dimension is always fiction.  
> Hermann Hesse, _The Glass Bead Game_
> 
> “Everybody has some destiny they must fulfill, but in fulfilling you must pay a price.”  
> Brian May, 1977

A slog, a dramatic panoply, an ever-blossoming garden of ashes and glitter alike - a tour was all those things, but America remained that bitch goddess and fresh-faced maiden to conquer and the members of Queen faced each meeting with her as if the world was made new before their steadily jaded gaze. Each time they proclaimed: “This time we’re going to do it.”

But what was _it_ , exactly?

In truth, they had to work hard to win any audience, all audiences they had encountered. Even now, established success did not make their task of getting people to understand them any easier. This was the price of being unique. But they were simply unable to do anything else.

 _Still_ , Brian thought, gazing down at the dark expanse of the Atlantic on yet another transcontinental flight, _it might be nice for once not to be so singular_.

Looking over at the sleeping figures of the others, these people he couldn’t imagine living without although curiosity made it a consideration for sleepless nights and silent rides after a blazing row, he knew the impossibility of such a thing. 

_Like attracts like, or close enough._

 

Sometimes it felt as though they hadn’t ever left that one room, the slightly shabby environs of Wessex where they toiled on yet another project, but one in which they weren’t going to crawl too far up their own arses, the perfectionist mania pried from their psyches like the fingers of a dead man.

But that only lasted up until the mix and then there they were: crouched over the desk, shoulder-to-shoulder, intently listening for the spark within, to render their particular alchemy. 

They hadn’t fought quite so much as usual but fighting was reflexive to a point - Brian and Roger could never resist digging into each other, each the brother they never had and therefore object of both torture and protective instinct. Deaky would ignore it, as always ensconced at the back of the room, and Freddie would either intervene or pick a side and thus with new fuel it would crackle and burn.

It was strange being the only person awake on an overnight flight. Save for the air hostesses who clustered in the galley and Brian could hear their titters and gossip as he attempted to read his new paperback copy of _Time Snake and Superclown_ , a far-out name for a book which was rather philosophically heavy, as sci-fi tended to be sometimes. It made him consider the nature of group dynamics, how would they manage to project an image which would satisfy the greatest number of people. You couldn’t win an audience one by one as you could in Blighty, the county was too fucking big for that kind of tenacity. You had to grab the crowd who turned up as one entity and blind them, deafen them, dazzle their addled minds and send them back out into the night excited by what they had witnessed.

And there was something pure about that reaction, the song in the blood, the roar of revelry. He was never particularly good at parties, but every night it was _their_ party and he did his best to rise to it, armed with his hand-built thunder-spell.

Brian overthought _everything_ , he knew this, as well as the effort being made to tolerate this tendency of his by those in proximity. It was better when he was alone, as he was in this sleepless vigil. Roger next to him lost in some dream of naughty girls, his slight form nearly folded up within the seat, rosebud mouth opened in a nearly-perfect ‘o’ to emit a slurring snore, his newly-chopped and bleached coif sticking straight up in places. Deaky and Ratty in the seats forward were also snoring (John’s sleep was particularly uneasy as the white-knuckle flier in their midst), while Freddie and Joe across the aisle enacted a balancing act of the kind only achievable in slumber, each slumped against the other. Brian quietly extracted his map of the United States from his carry-on bag and studied it, frowning over the itinerary he had overlaid upon it, carefully printed upon viewfoils. This was to be their longest and most intensive tour of the country yet, and he worried that something else was bound to go wrong.

 _The main worry_ , he told himself. _Among all the others._

He recalled one night in 1969, he and Roger had gone down the pub _après_ -gig and over their half-drunk pints Roger had fixed him with a apprising squint amid the sounds, sights and smells of a typical fag-end crowd, attempting to forestall the moment when _Time, gentleman and ladies_ was announced and everyone would have to go find something else to do and someone to do it with.

“I almost hate to say this because you _actually_ know how to play, but have you ever considered that you might be too serious for rock n’roll?”

It was an honest question, certainly, but also one which Roger was assuming Brian would take offense to. That he didn’t said enough about how well he knew himself.

He considered that he should be lost in his own dream about a particular naughty girl, but his ambivalent nature wouldn’t allow him to indulge it, he blushed with shame that he was even considering it. But the thought lingered even so.


	2. Scene Two: the icy tendrils of the Midwest

“Brian, you’re going to have to stop moping now, really,” Freddie scolded him. “I can’t sit here and look at your face.” He flipped through an issue of _Vogue_. “Oh dear, look at this advert, it’s fucking wretched, too much negative space.” He picked up a pen and began doodling in the margins.

“I thought ‘Melancholy’ sounded great last night, you finally got that cabaret vibe sorted,” Brian said, hoping the compliment would distract Freddie from whatever complaint he meant to make.

Freddie shrugged. “I was having a moment, I suppose. With no thanks to any of you!”

“I’m not moping,” Brian asserted.

“Yes you are. Who is it now, hmm? Who are you in love with and torturing yourself about? It’s so fucking useless, Mags, why did you even get married if you’re going to engage in this melodrama?”

“You fucking well know why. I’m just…”

“Pining, mooning, being bloody ridiculous! Look, I know all about it, don’t I? Impossible situations and the like. Not being able to have what I want, no matter how hard I try. But you’re doing it on purpose and then we have to suffer you sighing and looking tragic and if we’ve got to drag our hides back out here then we all need to be in a better mood or heads are going to roll.”

“You do the breaking,” Brian teased.

“Oh my heart’s been stomped to bits, darling. But what else can I do? I’m certainly not going to take to my bed and reenact _Camille_.”

“I fall in love too easily, and then of course I want to tell them -”

“You are hopeless, simply hopeless!”

“Who’s hopeless?” Roger asked, joining them at their table.

“Liz darling, do you remember Crystal dragging you up to your room last night?”

Roger bared his teeth in his signature snarl. “I recall something involving a lift.”

Brian chuckled. “Remember, Bob’s got you dead pissed on film now, you might want to practice a bit more decorum.”

Freddie laughed out loud. “Splodge? Can you imagine it?!”

“Pure folly, yes,” Brian replied, paging through a newspaper thoughtfully provided by their waiter.

They drank coffee…

“Nothing more vile.” Freddie muttered, but continued to drink it.

...and poked dubiously at the American version of a fry-up.

“Why is there no actual food in this godforsaken frozen wasteland?!”

Roger shrugged and dutifully cleaned his plate in order to penetrate the fog of his hangover.

“Speaking of frozen I think I might be -” Brian cleared his throat and his bandmates made noises of protest.

“For fuck’s sake don’t start with that again!” Roger cried.

“You are **not** getting ill this time, you’ve been poked and prodded stem to stern!” Freddie declared. “Though naturally I wouldn’t mind such a thing myself.” He grinned and Roger guffawed, then lit a cigarette and began examining one particular lingerie ad in Freddie’s magazine.

“Well I **do** , honestly.”

Ratty appeared, looking nearly the same as when they saw him only scant hours before, making certain the bass department found their way to bed from the hotel bar.

“So then, gents, are ya ready to shove off? Cars are waitin’ - had to let the engines run a while, it’s 15 below zero or some such bollocks.”

“Deaky’s already in the car? Well why didn’t you tell us?!”

“Had to bring him down on a baggage cart so plenty of time for brekkie.”

“Oh I can tell already this tour is going to be _interesting_ ,” Roger said, shrugging into his silver fur coat.

“Oh bother, did I leave my scarf in the room?” Brian fretted, digging through his carry-on bag.

“Jobby’s got it, Bri,” Ratty called over his shoulder as they all made their way to the lobby.

Waiting for their fleet of cars to pull up to the entrance, Brian gave Freddie a look which was somewhere between a glare and an entreaty.

“You are the single most melodramatic person in all of this.”

Freddie smirked. “Precisely, dear, which is how I know you’re being ridiculous.”

Ratty motioned them out into the early-morning cold and they all groaned and hurried towards their respective vehicles.

“I’m not!" Brian called out.

“Yes you are,” Roger answered, pulling the collar of his coat around his ears. “Whatever it is.”


	3. Scene Three: minor deities always eat their young

The gig concluded, what Brian primarily recalled was seeing a couple of girls screaming their heads off and clutching each other to behold...him? He swore he saw some unfamiliar glimmer in their eyes even in the midst of the lights and dry ice. He knew from hysteria but this had been a deeper reaction somehow. He was still dazed from the emotional feedback - they screamed into the void and the void answered in full voice, hungry.

_Yes, that’s what it was, I think. Hungry._

They had been directed to the finest local restaurant (which wasn’t really any kind of fine if he was honest), full of people who had no idea who they were or why they were making an entrance, whereas when they emerged again after the requisite food and wine and conversation a contingent of those adoring masses appeared to have followed them from the venue, waiting out in the car park and likely freezing their arses off. Ah, youthful optimism.

He was the only one to approach them, signing things and inquiring of their reactions, which were granted in various permutations of articulation. The boys tended to be less so, the girls might have been blushing, but their reddened faces might have also been merely cold. He wasn’t very particularly skilled at discerning attraction.

Which is why he always went for the ones who didn’t seem to be interested at all.

Roger’s hoarse “Brian!” from the car cut through his usual pondering in these situations and he smiled, apologized for having to leave so soon, and thanked everyone for coming to the show. He came around the other side of the limo (courtesy of their local promoter) to see John looking out at the landscape beyond, drinking from a bottle of brandy.

“Where did you get that?”

John nodded his head back towards the restaurant. “Crystal nicked it, I think.”

“Of course he did. What are you doing, Johnnie?”

“How far off d’ya think someone can see from here?” He gestured out with a pale hand.

Brian first looked up to orientate himself, then frowned to realize the attendant urban light pollution meant that the stars could not be fixed. He looked out towards the horizon, sighting distant clusters of illumination.

“I dunno, p’haps 30 kilometers or so.”

“It’s so flat, isn’t that odd?”

“It’s America, c’mon then.”

The girls waved and jumped and screamed “We love you!” as they drove off and he pondered the notion of fixation.

_I loved you, but did I? Really? When you wouldn’t even tell me your name for an entire night. You let me have you, but you wouldn’t let me have your name._

His dad called it a kind of false idolatry, and though he could see the sense of it, he wanted to believe in that love.

_It doesn’t matter what they think of you, any of them._

Still, as the others engaged in drunken lewd riposte, he leaned his cheek against a cold window and ached for their love, their desperate, clinging, hysterical love.

 

“We’ve got to do something about that floor, Grumpy - I keep slipping, I tell you!”

Gerry gave Freddie a look which was bemused but pantomiming a particular befuddlement.

“Fred, maybe we could find you some different shoes? Don’t they have those types with a rougher sole?”

“Ratty, go look up the number for Capezio, I simply must know if they do!”

Everyone chuckled, but on the other hand no one desired their diva to injure himself.

“How’d ya spell that then?” his minder inquired, and Freddie did so, each letter a dagger in the other’s heart.

“No one’s going to be there now, I reckon,” Brian noted and received the _no one asked for your opinion_ glare.

“I shall endeavor to be cautious tonight. Onstage.” This drew a round of snickering and they all continued their primping. Roger then made his usual plea to the other.

“Melina, please, help me sing it tonight. Just one verse, it’d be a blessing.”

“Darling no, it’s far too amusing to watch you struggle through it. Besides, I can’t do that rock n’roll grunting like you do.”

“I don’t grunt! I don’t.”

“The Groaner of Truro, that’s what they called him,” John said quietly and everyone cracked up.

“Well that’s fair,” Roger allowed. “But not as much as they called me the very best boy in Cornwall, naturally.”

“Naturally,” his bandmates echoed and then razzed him in unison.

“Just for that I’m telling Harris to turn me up in all your monitors!”

“Oh yes, because we don’t get nearly enough of your Keith Moon also-ran posturing every night,” Freddie gibed and Roger covered his face with his hands, giggling.

 

“Brian, I told you that you shouldn’t be trying to call me.”

“I know, I know, it’s just that - well, I just wanted to know how you were.”

“Why?”

“Because -”

“No, don’t tell me. But I’m fine. How’s it going?”

“Oh it’s fine, I think. Just rather cold. Can’t wait till we get down South again!”

“Look, you know I can’t come see you, right? I told you all that in the letter I sent.”

“I know, but look - I’ll arrange it all, you would only have to be available.”

A deep sigh, and his heart sank. “But that’s the whole point, Bri. I’m **not** available. And neither are you.”

“So none of it mattered then,” his voice colder and harder than he wanted it to be. He wasn’t meaning recrimination but there was a pain lodged in his throat. As if he had to speak around it.

“Did you actually read my letter?”

“Dozens of times.”

“Then you already know the answer.”

_But tell me, damn you. Tell me you **did** love me._

“I’m sorry, truly truly sorry, I just -”

He was going to cry. No, he couldn’t be doing this, couldn’t be a mewling wretched thing to his goddess.

_I could get anyone I like, you know. The fact that I even want to bother with you should make you a little nicer._

Oh...that demon in his head, he was a right bastard. He squirmed with shame once again.

“Brian? Hello?”

“I won’t ring you again, I promise. Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” she said, and he heard the regret in her voice. It would have to do. He quietly placed the receiver back into the cradle and spent at least an hour just staring at the opposite wall, numbed by the slow destruction of his illusions.


	4. Scene Four: in fact it's too much

A _crash_ sounded in the corridor and the outer wall shook.

Brian opened the door to see a covered dish lid spinning lazily at his feet. A room service cart had been summarily slammed into the opposite wall, its’ contents littered the immediate hallway. Lumps of various foodstuffs splattered the carpet and walls.

“Roger, honestly, that’s beyond the pale! What if someone had been coming down the hall?”

“I’m not eating this swill anymore!” his drummer shouted back from the neighboring room.

As the true child of privilege among them, if Roger was of a mind to he could throw a tantrum to rival any other spoiled rock star one could name. Brian looked at the toasted cheese half in his hand - he could admit he felt much the same (The cheese was...oily? What kind of cheese was _oily_ for Christ’s sake?!) but was eating it out of a sense of duty to his body and because he thought of his mother’s lectures regarding the wasting of food (which were always accompanied by a memory of the Blitz and rationing and such) and at least the tomato soup wasn’t half-bad.

Crystal emerged from the room, cigarette hanging from his mouth, pausing to look down at the mess.

“Well there’s nothing for it, I reckon, but to ring the maid.”

Brian shook his head and returned to his room. He had an idea while on this tour to keep a journal for the baby, who wouldn’t be reading it until years gone by, and thought it might serve as something he’d want to remind himself of bygone days, but it wasn’t going so well.

_You’re just the smallest bit of potential, aren’t you? It’s as mystical a process as the formation of a star. When I say “mystical” I mean that although we can define it, we can observe it, we are still awed by the contemplation of it._

Who in their right mind would want to read **that**? Then again who knew what kind of person that small collection of cells would turn out to be, after all.

An argument was now taking place in the corridor. Brian hoped the police wouldn’t have to be involved, as American law enforcement was rather heavy-handed and suspected every rock band to be drug users and while that might be a fair assumption it wasn’t true in their case. Freddie loved to remind the crew _We’re not paying you enough to be druggies, dears, so follow that on your own time._ And speaking of…

“Rog, what have you done?!”

“It’s a protest.”

“This isn’t a gulag, darling. No one is forcing you to order room service. But as you lads don’t care to dine with **me** anymore, then reap what you fucking sow.”

“Oh fuck off!”

A door slammed further down the corridor, and a familiar fist banged upon his.

“Can you believe that bitch?!” Roger demanded when Brian opened the door, bloodshot blue eyes a-blaze with righteous indignation.

“Most of the time, no, but he’s probably right. We shouldn’t be spending so much time at the clubs, they don’t even serve food generally.”

“I’m 28, not 68! When I’ve played a show I want to go out for some fun.”

“If only you could find a less destructive way of pitching a fit -”

“Fuck you too!”

“You could stand to be a bit more mature,” Brian called out, watching something squidgy slide down the wall in front of him. The door slammed and he flinched.

How on earth was he going to raise a child? That was yet another worry, and now he wanted nothing more but to climb beneath the blankets and not think about anything. He closed his door and leaned against it, sighing.

And he was _lonely_. But what else was new?

 

“How does an orgasm sound?”

“What?” Roger stood up from the control room sofa. “You’re honestly asking us that?”

“I don’t mean like a blue movie, dear, but what would a musical orgasm sound like?”

John smirked, Brian blushed.

“That’s what I want: high drama, musical orgasm.”

“We’re not _supposed_ to go over the top this time!”

“Oh we have to just a bit. Wouldn’t be us otherwise, now would it?”

“This calls for a drink,” Roger said, and passed around cans of lager. After a few swallows they all seemed to consider the original question.

“Well,” Brian began, his voice taking on the low tone he used when thoughtful, “I suppose I could make some... _noises_ , you know...like guitar sex noises.”

“And what is **that** , then?” Roger demanded, laughing.

“Oh let him figure it out, dear. I like that. Here, let me play you what I’ve got, it’s very percussive.”

It became a puzzle for them, how to add to Freddie’s primal beat, his sharp phrasing. How to underscore the desire he seemed willing to display, after so many years of writing about love rather than lust. It was certainly different, and that was what they wanted to be.

“You know what it reminds me of?” Roger asked.

“What, darling?”

“Something from _Cabaret_ , maybe? All sorts of bells and whistles, dramatic pauses and the like.”

“Yes very Fosse, I would say. I was probably stealing when I thought of it.”

“So we’ve gone from music hall to West End, eh?” John teased. “Just don’t expect any high kicks out of me.”

Freddie performed a half-decent _plie_ and threw his arms wide. “Only I shall be dancing!”

“Just as long as you’re not doing something to get us all arrested,” Brian quipped, and began to rummage through his effects case for the Eventide.

 

“No, less melodic, more tough, more dramatic. Your phrasing is too big.”

“But it has to be big, the track is so heavy.”

“This guy -”

“Just some _guy_ , huh?”

Brian flushed, but continued. “This guy is really conflicted. He’s trying to harden his heart against the one he really wants more than anything. He’s _angry_.”

“You ask me,” Roger said, “this whole song sounds like a suicide pact.”

“Oh fuck off,” Brian snapped.

“Actually I get it - it **is** rather desperate.”

“Exactly.”

“All right, dear, I’ll be an actor then, shall I?”

“Yes, that would be good.”

“Give me a moment, then. Or you can tell me who this _guy_ is.”

Brian flushed again and raised two fingers so that they were visible through the glass into the live room.

“Yes that’s what I thought,” Freddie replied, grinning.


	5. Scene Five: "What are they paying us for?!"

“For God’s sake, John, the piano sounds terrible from out here!”

The band’s long-suffering sound boffin nodded at the band crowding him in the production area and followed it up with a sort of helpless shrug.

“I know it does, Fred, but if we don’t put some kind of sound treatment in that corner it’s just going to bounce everywhere. Shockingly, these venues aren’t actually built for rock concerts.”

“And why haven’t we?!” Freddie demanded, seeming to ignore the sarcasm within the explanation.

“Interferes with the lights, it does,” Nick explained. “Don’t want it to get tangled up in the rigging, there’s a truss waiting to fall on someone.”

“It wouldn’t be _me_ , dear, I move around far too much,” Freddie quipped.

“Oh as long as it’s not **you** , then,” Roger gibed, then stuck out his tongue. “But you need to turn my mic up as well, John. I couldn’t hear myself in last night’s recording.”

“Perhaps that was a mercy, your voice was shot,” Brian said.

“Oh fuck my voice!” Roger snapped. “My voice is fine once I get warmed up. But you couldn’t fucking hear me _at all_ on my song. And people are _paying_ for that.”

“Just **that** then,” Deaky deadpanned.

“Yes, fuck all these lights and such, useless!” Freddie teased, waving his arms about.

“I admit I was crushed that I couldn’t hear the ballad of the boy racer,” John noted, “since it is about me and all, but I attempted to get it sorted, honestly I did. We’re checking to see if there’s a short in the lead, perhaps, or if the wiring might need to be redone because everything was fine on our end.”

“Why not just get him a new one?” Freddie suggested.

“No! That mic is perfect, I don’t want another one.” Roger argued.

Their Front of House gave the others a _now you see what I have to endure_ look.

“Whatever it is,” Brian said, “you **must** get it sorted now, you know that. It has to work. As has been noted, people are _paying_ for this and if we disappoint then we’ve lost our chance to break through here _again_.”

The attendant crew nodded their heads solemnly and returned to their labors.

“Why didn’t you name it that?” Freddie asked Roger. “Far better title.”

“Oh now you’ve got something to say, do you? Can’t let Harris think he has too much clout, there’d be no living with him then.”

“One might say the same of you,” Brian said under his breath.

“I heard that, Percy!”

“I’d bloody love to be gardening right now! Some honest work for a change.”

Brian pushed by the others and walked rapidly down the center aisle towards the stage. Roger made to call after him and Freddie put a hand over his mouth.

“Hush! Don’t wind him up **now** , wait till _after_ the show!”

 

“Dane, did you stretch my leotard? It’s all baggy now!”

“It was just washed last night - if anything it should be _shrunk_ a bit.”

“Hand-washed, I should hope.”

“Yes Fred, _absolutely_ hand-washed.”

“Stretching the old leotard, that sounds like a euphemism, doesn’t it?” Roger cracked, grinning widely.

“Typical,” Brian muttered, hunched over his travel case.

“Dane, come finish my hair, I’m only half-fluffed here!” Roger demanded.

There was a long pause whereupon all eyes turned to him and he looked back at everyone in the room from his position in front of the mirror.

“Now there’s a _euphemism_ for you, darling. Shall we call him Fluffy now?” Freddie said, his expressive eyes seeming to gleam with mischief.

“Like an adorable drowned rat,” John quipped.

“I’m a dangerous man, I am!” Roger declared. “There’s nothing adorable about me!”

“And _everything_ insufferable,” Brian concluded.

“Maggie is feeling her oats tonight, eh?” Freddie noted. “Watch out, America!”

“You might actually _rock them_ at that,” Roger said, smiling at having the last word.

 

No matter what Peter had attempted to coordinate for after-gig amusements, it all somehow went to shit after about an hour or so and general mischief would result: food fights, drunken but good-natured insults, Roger picking his nose for anyone who pointed a camera at him, John attempting to hide behind potted palms and the like. They disliked having to schmooze with the Elektra promotions people even as they recognized the necessity of it. They too had paid for the privilege of interacting with the band and by extension, the rock n’roll circus they brought with them.

He watched Brian making polite conversation with various people, clutching a vodka-tonic like a liferaft, adrift in a sea of strangers.

He mourned the uneaten meal which Dave had gone to great lengths to prepare, finally declaring the crew could have what they liked, watched Rog and Crystal attempt to pull a few girls (Why would they need more than two?), Freddie in heated conversation with Paul and Joe, then Brian talking to a woman he hadn’t seen before, but there was something familiar about her. As he puzzled over her identity he watched them walk out of the banquet room and looked over at Tunbridge, standing on the other side of the room, his expression one of typical alert boredom. He threw a _Who was that?_ look at the bodyguard and the answering shrug meant _Not my business._

A _crash_ sounded and oh fuck, Roger had gotten someone to knock over the ice sculpture _again_.

“Lads, please, let’s not destroy _everything_ , right?”

“The Lizzies are waiting for us, we want to go now,” Roger whined.

“Fine,” Peter said, glancing at his watch, “but do try and return before dawn, eh?”

“No promises!” Roger crowed, dragging Crystal and the girls in his wake.

He followed them down to the lobby in order to call the hired limousine which awaited their pleasure and saw Brian and the woman a bit further down from the entrance. Brian had a hand on her shoulder and he was making some kind of impassioned plea, but she shook her head repeatedly then got into a waiting cab. 

“Rog,” Peter said quietly. “Why don’t you take Brian along too?”

“Brian!” Roger yelled. “C’mon then, we’re going to the bar with Scott and Gary!”

Brian watched the cab leave the hotel, then strode up to the limo. His expression was one of resigned disappointment until he was in their midst, changing immediately to the best smile he could muster, which was not much of a smile at all.

“Pete, can you please send someone up for my coat and scarf?”

Peter nodded, wanting to ask _What was that about?_ but knowing it wasn’t his concern, or at least not yet. But he felt pained to see that brave shadow of a smile.


	6. Scene Six: Scenes from a serious enterprise

“We can’t let it get stale, that’s the death of us.”

John quirked an eyebrow in the direction of Freddie’s conversation, on the phone with an American journalist. Roger and Brian were dutifully engaged in abbreviated correspondence with a stack of postcards while John and Jim examined the receipts from the last two concerts.

“I’m not liking this,” Jim murmured. “Attendance is dropping off and there’s no discernible reason. The weather hasn’t been so terrible, has it?”

“Perhaps we need more adverts, then?” John suggested.

“You hear them every 20 minutes or so on the rock stations,” Brian noted. “That DJ I talked to the other night called it ‘total market saturation’ or some such.”

“More direct promotion, then? I know you lot said ‘no contests’ but -”

“No, those things are bollocks!” Roger exclaimed. “Freddie’s right, we need to keep a bit of mystery about us. The kids want to get closer, let them earn it.”

“In America they expect you will be more attainable, as they say,” Jim observed.

Brian snickered. “Coo-ey!”

Roger grinned. “Oh I’ve been _attained_ , Miami, believe you me.”

“Speaking of, you had your check-up, Rog? No critters crawling about in your skivvies?”

Everyone laughed, and even Freddie had to apologize to his interrogator for giggling over a question.

“I’m in the pink, thanks ever so.”

“So how’s the take, then, can you tell?” Brian asked, ignoring Roger's double entendre; his innate pragmatism never too far from any conversation.

“We might possibly break even this time as we’re playing larger venues. Too early to know for certain just yet. But merchandising is certainly liquid, so far. Simon tells me he’s only found a couple of bootleggers - they’re following us from town-to-town, apparently.”

“Have you seen what they’re peddling?” John asked. “Utter rubbish!”

“Are they copying our designs?” Brian asked.

“No, I saw a terrible reproduction of our crest, it was all turned about and so cheap.”

“Unfortunately the police aren’t inclined to do anything about it, so from what the promoters have told me, we must take matters into our own hands.”

“You’re gonna break someone’s kneecaps then, like the Mafia?!” Roger exclaimed.

“Me? Certainly not. But _someone_ might.”

Brian sighed. “Is that _truly_ necessary? We’re not actually gangsters.”

“Dear boy, think of it like this: you pay **me** to worry about things like that, so you can concentrate on your art.”

“That’s how it starts, isn’t it? The slippery slope.”

“Brian, stop being so precious!” John scolded. “This is _business_ , and we all know what a cesspool it is.”

Brian waved a hand in surrender and returned to his scribbling.

“Keep ‘em honest, Johnnie!” Roger said, and in his exultation their bass player’s ultimate value was deemed positively foundational.

 

He didn’t know how to write to someone who wasn’t even born yet. He started writing to _her_ instead.

_Freddie and his hens - you remember, don’t you? There’s more of them now, he’s the only one of us to have an entourage because he doesn’t like to be alone. I’m still not quite certain how it happened, although perhaps he was always that way. He had a horror of taking the bus alone, I recall. He insisted we **must** ride to the studio together. Those days don’t seem too far gone, but also as if it were a hundred years ago._

_It’s strange how cities are so spread out here. They go on for so many miles. I know one might say London is the same but it’s not really. Once you leave the boundaries of central London then bits of the country start to creep in, the small towns where nothing happens. But one feels positively bound by all these highways, like a noose around one’s neck. No escaping the grit and grime of a modern city._

_I met someone yesterday - she reminded me of you. Same kind of beauty, so delicate. She wore a lovely dress, it was surprising when one sees so many girls wearing trousers these days. I don’t care for that, as you know. Vive la difference, as they say. We conversed well, but then -_

_Never mind._

 

“Darling, I love it, but I’m not going to a grimy theatre for God’s sake! Can you imagine? No, Paul is taking us to a club he knows about, it’s supposed to be _tres chic_.”

“That bloody movie - you’ve seen it a dozen times already!” Roger cried.

Both Freddie and Roger nodded at this assertion and Brian rolled his eyes.

“Only _eight_ times. But I’d see it eight more if I could. And the theatre is just down the way. Deaky’s coming, and Jobby and Ratty too.”

“Twice was enough for me, honestly,” Roger said. “Crystal and me will join the Lizzies then.”

“Oooh a razzle-dazzle!” Freddie teased. “It is true, dear, that you nearly got thrown out of that club in Detroit because Gary was threatening to cause a riot?”

“You’ve never actually talked to him, have you?”

“No darling, only that dashing Phillip.”

“Well Gary’s a bit of a hard man, one might say. He doesn’t take any guff. It was rather a rough place, I think, not a typical rock club.”

“Promise me you won’t let them crumple you, Splodge, you’re much too delicate.”

Roger laughed. “I shall endeavor to remain unmolested.”

“And the only fights I’ll be witnessing are on the silver screen,” Brian said.

“BORING!” was their reply.

After Freddie skipped out of their communal dressing room once Dave called for dinner, Roger grimaced at Brian.

“Chic, eh? More like _effete_.”

“Well that’s Fred all over, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you think he’s pulling away from us rather a bit? Has all his own friends now?”

“Yes, but it’s rather obvious _why_ , isn’t it? He likes certain types of people and that’s not us. I don’t take it personally and neither should you.”

Roger sighed. “I suppose I miss the way it was, is all.”

“You don’t miss being skint, I know that much.”

“ _No one_ misses that, Bri.”


	7. Scene Seven: mutable but determined

“I have an idea,” Brian announced.

His bandmates, engineers, and technical assistants stared at him through the glass. 

“Do tell!” Freddie enthused after a moment.

“Gary, can you turn on mic four, please? And a bit of reverb?”

After the requisite adjustments the other gave Brian a thumbs-up.

“Right; so just imagine in a hall - or an arena - everyone doing _this_.”

He stomped his right foot twice and clapped his hands. The wooden sole of his clog upon the wooden floor of the live room plus the sharp _crack_ of the clap made for an interesting percussive sound with the added reverb.

Silence.

“Hmm,” John said. “I wonder if they’d all do it in time.”

“They all sing together, when they want to,” Freddie observed.

“Exactly!” Brian exclaimed. “They love to sing to us, so here’s something else they can do, and they _will_ do it if they hear it on a record first.”

“Are you still on about Stafford? I told you: a crowd at a concert, the more pissed they are then chances are they _will_ sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ at some point. It wasn’t to do with us!” Roger countered.

“I still believe it was a special circumstance,” Brian insisted. “I want to involve them, we learned from Mott that’s what makes a show unforgettable.”

“So what’s the idea then? Just that?” Freddie asked.

“That’s the beat, and there’s a chant.” He demonstrated it for them, going through it several times.

“Ooh, I like it! Is that it?”

“No there’s lyrics too, I mean it to be a song, but short and sweet. The main thing is compel them to participate. Think of what a great bloody noise that will be!”

“Arenas, eh? American arenas?” Roger asked, but he was smiling.

“We will, we will, play them!” Brian chanted, and they all laughed.

“Four people isn’t a crowd,” John observed. “How can we overdub to sound like an arena?”

“We round up everyone we know and record them and **then** we overdub it!” Brian waved his hand in a summoning motion. The rest of the band and their techs entered the live room and clustered around the mic.

“Right; so you’ve got to stomp hard, then. Follow me.”

After a few false starts they fell into the rhythm and Mike let the tape roll for several minutes, nodding his head in time with the beat.

“It has a groove to it, don’t you think?” Freddie asked. “More than whatever you might hear at a football match.”

“As if _you_ would know!” Roger teased and Freddie laughed loudest of all.

 

“Look at him go,” John said, watching their drummer give his kettle drums a workout. They were draped in towels, Freddie was in the midst of yet another costume change, and they had all downed at least one cup of beer since retreating to their makeshift tent during Roger’s solo.

“He’s a Leo, darling, what do you expect?” Freddie quipped. He jumped up and down several times to seat his black leotard just right. “Should I wear my jewels tonight, you think?” he inquired of Dane who stood in front of a small road case filled with various wardrobe accessories.

“I’m a Leo too, not that I know what it means,” John countered.

“You’re on the cusp, Deaky, so you could be just as much Virgo as anything. In fact I think you are, actually.”

“But what does that mean?” John asked.

“It’s rubbish, that’s what it means,” Brian shot back. “Ratty, can we have a fan in here, please? I’m going to melt right out of these fucking clothes.”

“Deaky _is_ a typical Virgo, he is! He’s very loyal and self-effacing.”

“And me? Am I a typical Cancer then?”

“Lord love a duck you are the most Cancer-like Cancer I’ve ever known, dear.”

“Yes I’ve heard it all: broody and insecure and sensitive.”

“You _are_ rather sensitive sometimes,” John allowed.

“It’s rubbish! The stars care nothing for us, we are just the tiniest of specks in the Universe and I speak from fucking scientific experience on that.”

“I do think the glove would be nice for a few songs,” Dane said, holding out the black satin-and-rhinestone object to his charge.

“Oh yes, just beat us over the head with your learned discourse, Maggie, that’ll go down a treat.”

“Uh, gents? Rog has been standing out there for 20 seconds now,” Crystal informed them from the entrance. “And he says to ask you, ‘ _What the fuck are you doin’ then?!_ ’”

“Tell him Freddie had to read our horoscopes to see if the stars align to finish the bloody gig,” Brian snapped, taking a last drink before exiting the tent.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Freddie said, nudging John as they walked back out to the stage. “Make a moody Cancer into a rock n’roll star and you get... _that_!” He extended his glove-shod hand dramatically upon his entrance.

John smirked and shook his head as Ratty handed him his bass.

 

“Oh I should think it’s going well, don’t you?” Freddie asked Bob. They had convened in an alcove near the bar in the VIP portion of the venue, with security forming a wall between them and whoever might be passing by. It was mid-afternoon, with soundcheck still an hour away. They sat near a window displaying another overcast day, overlooking a constant stream of cars traversing the infamous D.C. Beltway.

“Yes, from my perspective it looks totally together. The kids are quite enthusiastic.”

“Isn’t it funny how we seem to have younger kids this time? I wonder why that is - is it because they play us on Top Forty now too, you think?”

“That could be, certainly, though rock music is popular for kids of all ages now, that’s what one of the A&R men told me. They’re really counting on you to be the next big thing.”

Freddie let out a sarcastic huff. “But I don’t want to be the next thing, I want to be an institution!”

Bob laughed and took a sip of his beer. “Doesn’t that sound rather stuffy?”

“Well look at the bands we wanted to be as popular as, that’s what they are now.”

“What do you think it will take to be as big as Zeppelin?”

“I think we are, dear, but it’s not quite the same. They are mysterious and we may be less so. I don’t think you can quite manage it these days; everyone is so inquisitive.”

“And you don’t like that, I know.”

“Why should anyone care about _me_? I’m just an entertainer, let me show you a good time and then you can go home and when you’re trapped in your prosaic life the next day you can think of me with a smile.”

“Are you a fantasy, Freddie?”

Freddie licked his lips and fussed with his hair. “I’m just little old me. But when I’m on stage I’m _creating_ a fantasy, certainly. Don’t we all long for a bit of that? I want to be taken out of myself, if only for a while.”

“Even when you’re onstage?”

“That is where I forget everything else!”

“What are the things you want to forget?”

Freddie squirmed in his seat a bit and Bob wondered how he was going to equivocate.

“Oh darling you know - all the tedious things one wants to escape. This dreary fucking winter, for one. No wonder the kids are coming in droves, they need their spirits lifted!”

 _Slippery to the last, is this particular winged god_ , Bob thought.


	8. Entr'acte: such a nice young man

Call it Fate, if you will, but upon the afternoon of their travel day to Philadelphia - which was also one of the nation’s revered holidays - our lads found themselves instead at a manse in upstate New York enjoying the hospitality of one of the label’s old money executives.

“Old money, you see, because he’s been in it so long,” as Peter explained to them.

It was unusual in that the band had never met anyone in the business who could be said to be over the age of 40.

“Do we _have_ to do this?” Roger whined. “I just want to sleep I’m so knackered.”

“It’s Thanksgiving, and they’ve extended you an invitation to dine, you can’t say no and still expect to retain your well-mannered and reasonable reputation, now can you?”

“I’d say we fit the one but not the other,” Brian quipped, and John snickered.

“Is he terribly wealthy, this man?” Freddie asked.

“Well he’s not quite on the level of more money than God, but definitely well-off if he’s got a Gilded Age mansion and such,” Peter assured him.

“Ooh well, we must go then, if only for a glimpse of such a halcyon setting, dears.”

Freddie could never resist intimations of elegance.

It seemed an easy enough prospect, even as Freddie pouted at having to send Joe on with the crew to Philadelphia, while Peter and Paul accompanied the band upon their first turn in a private jet.

“Now wouldn’t this be lovely?” Freddie asked rhetorically. “One should always travel in such splendid style!”

“It’s not eight people crammed into a transit van, I’ll give you that,” Roger cracked, with a rueful smile.

“One of the local crew told us this is like Boxing Day, with a turkey dinner,” John noted, and Peter nodded.

“Yes, just so, think of it as dinner with the fam and you’ll be golden.”

Three of his charges sort of sighed and shrugged, but the other smiled and nodded.

 

“So half of you are married then?” the wife asked. “Is that difficult, having to be apart so often?”

“We normally travel with our families when we can, but both our wives are expecting right now, you see,” Brian replied.

“Congratulations are in order then!” their host enthused, and Brian and John both smiled and nodded with a bit of shyness.

“I’m so terribly sorry no one told us you were vegetarian,” their hostess said to Brian for the third time.

“Oh it’s absolutely no bother, honestly,” Brian replied, taking up another spoonful of plain mashed potatoes. “And may I say I don’t think I’ve had better broad beans _ever_. Quite delicious.”

She nodded with the kind of _noblesse oblige_ one possessed when not required to participate in the preparations.

“So are either of you planning to settle down?” their host inquired of Freddie and Roger.

“Well you see, my Mary, she is very sensible, insisting that I get all this rock n’roll wildness out of my system first. I’m too much of a madman for wedded bliss at the moment.”

In the silence between Freddie’s assertion and the following reply a slight cough could be heard at the other end of the table. When four sets of eyes looked over they saw two men wiping their mouths and attempting to look innocent.

“My girlfriend, well, we’ve only been dating a little while,” Roger explained. “If all goes well then I might be popping the question next year. My mum is certainly on me to do it.”

“Well you know boys, mothers can be very persuasive!” the wife stated.

Polite but strained smiles were offered at this declaration.

“Fathers too,” Brian added.

“So what do you think of our Thanksgiving then?” their host asked. “It’s your first one, I take it?”

They all nodded. “It’s quite nice, thank you. We appreciate the invitation,” Brian replied.

“It’s like our Christmas dinner back home,” John said.

“May I ask, this china is quite lovely, is it Spode?” Freddie asked.

“Why yes it is!” the wife answered, surprised. “My goodness you do have a keen eye!”

“I studied design, you see, so I know about such things. Do you have an entire set?”

“Several, in fact. Three different patterns, would you like to see them after dinner?”

“Oh that would be fabulous, thank you.”

“Yes you’re a rather intellectual bunch, aren’t you?” their host noted.

“We all threw over our education for this,” Brian said, “much to the dismay of our parents.”

Roger chuckled. “My mum, god bless, before we went on this tour I’d been to visit her and she said, ‘Oh Roggie, I never meant you should be a dentist, only that you should be _productive_ in some way.’”

“Did she approve of your wanting to be a musician?”

“About half the time, I reckon. She became moreso when she realized what a nice young man I’d fallen in with,” Roger replied, gesturing to Brian across the table, who snickered before eating another forkful of green beans.

“I couldn’t imagine rooting around in people’s mouths all day,” the wife said, shuddering.

“I never made it to that point, the first part of the course is much like the one for a G.P., you learn all your physiology and such. Having to memorize all the body parts and their functions.”

“It’s very unusual, you see, here in America most kids in rock bands were never particularly motivated towards school.”

They all shrugged and smiled once more. Their own inclinations - or lack thereof - towards those secondary pursuits were now difficult to defend since they had begun to harden within the amber of public ambition.

Once dinner was concluded - with dessert to follow after a suitable interval - they scattered into the nooks and crannies of the great house, with Roger accompanying their host into the drawing room to smoke, John and Peter sitting down in front of the television in the family room to puzzle their way through American football, Paul and Freddie taking a tour of the prized china, silverware and linens, and Brian standing before a telephone in yet another sort of parlour. He had inquired, with some embarrassment, if he might make a call which was long-distance but not overseas.

“Oh certainly, my boy, think nothing of it!” their host declared and Brian wondered what it must be like to be so wealthy that you _could_ be that generous and not even consider the cost.

He closed the door, half-wishing he could lock it, and considered the instrument for a few moments.

The madness was starting all again. Even as it shouldn’t. His hands shook, his heart raced. He ached for this, just this, the moment of connection and discovery.

He dialed from recent memory - possessing a particular talent for memorizing sequences of numbers from early childhood. The ringback tone was a long jangling peal, and for a moment he missed the twin _burr-burr_ of British Telecom. After four rings, just as despair was setting in, the answer came with a flustered “Hello?”

He whispered her name in response.

“Brian? Is it really you?”

“Are you having a nice Thanksgiving then?”

“Oh wow, you actually called!”

“I said I would.”

“Well yeah, but, sometimes guys just say that -”

“I can’t talk long, the band is having dinner with some record people, but I’ve been thinking of you all day.”

“Me too. I couldn’t sleep last night, and I had to get up at four to help my mom with the turkey.”

“We had quite a huge feast, is it always this way on Thanksgiving?”

“Oh yeah, we cooked for two days to get everything ready! So, I’m really going to be seeing you on Saturday?”

“Yes, I’ve got it all sorted for you. Was the telex delivered yesterday?”

She giggled. “Yeah, my mom was so nosy but I just told her it was for my job.”

“Alright then. I should ring off, but you’ll be dreaming of me, won’t you?”

A sigh, longing and lascivious. “I’ll be dreaming of what it will be like when -”

A voice yelling her name in the background caused her to stop mid-sentence. “Yeah I’m coming!” she answered. “Gotta go. I -”

“I know,” Brian said, “me too.” He hung up with a guilty thrill. He stood there a moment longer with eyes closed, listening to the recriminations in his brain until he gave his head a shake and allowed himself a moment of pleasure in the echo of her sigh.


	9. Scene Eight: psychodrama in 4/4

He wasn’t particularly fond of how early the song came in the setlist, but as a new (to them) song, that’s what you did. You saved the second half of the show for the mouldy oldies. This was meant to bludgeon the feelings of a crowd which had already been blinded and deafened by their patented assault. They weren’t yet vulnerable enough to react as they should.

He wanted people to weep, to recall their own moments of emotional weakness. But he never saw any of those kids doing anything but banging their heads and screaming into the smoky air.

And why did he think they would? They hadn’t lived what he had.

(Six months later Brian would, in fact, insist that it be slotted later in the setlist - with such uncharacteristic white-faced furor that he would receive no argument.)

_Why would you want to write a song whereupon you would be tortured by performing it for the next three or four years, if not longer?_

Why indeed?

To wallow in the shame of it, of course. Unbeknownst to everyone, or nearly so.

He believed it could have the potential import of, say, “Liar” - which he felt was still their true epic in a live setting, even as both fans and critics might be apt to single out other songs. But that song took so much out of them, even now, which is why they saved it for the middle of the set, then followed up with a few softer songs. Their set was so massive he was amazed they were able to play for as long as they did several nights in a row. This tour had been two or three days on, one day off for most of the run. They all fretted regarding the cumulative effect on Freddie’s voice, but on the other hand if they didn’t receive the emotional release and validation of a performance then the day itself felt wasted. It was addicting in its’ own way: that hungry roar, that great bloody noise they were making.

To confess in public without reprisal - other than what one did to one’s own conscience - it felt like getting away with a crime.

He hadn’t, of course. He hadn’t gotten away with anything. But he liked to pretend he was a law unto himself.

He had written himself an ending, a salvation of sorts, but only a temporary one. And he stood up there, before God and everyone, and wrung it out of himself every night.

Only wishing that he might know that fire again, and the sickening thrill of it all.

 

“I don’t want you to play a regular solo, just noise.”

“Did you say _noise_?”

“Noise. Stop thinking like a guitar player and think more like, oh I dunno, Schoenberg or something.”

“Rog, I don’t know anything about Schoenberg, or Stockhausen, or any of those guys.”

Roger laughed, shaking his head.

“For fuck’s sake Bri, not _literally_ Schoenberg! But the punks play noise, right, so let’s do it one better. We can make a noise because we know the rules well enough to break them. The punks don’t even know how to play well enough to do what we can do with the same type of thing.”

“You want to out-punk the punks then, is that it?”

“Exactly! Get out your gadgets and let’s pull in some signals from outer space.”

“Did you know - Jupiter has these **massive** radiation belts, and it’s theorized they broadcast like radio, though I don’t know if _Pioneer_ would be able to detect the frequencies. I think it’s more a general sort of probe.”

“Alright alright, no more interstellar lecturing from you, professor.”

“Is this what you wanted to do all along with it? Because when you wrote it we didn’t even know what Punk was.”

“I think I wanted to write a heavy song, and then Freddie showed us ‘Crazy’ and I thought: ‘Well I can’t do any better than that,’ so I dropped it.”

“Anything else you want in this wall of noise?”

“You can do some fills, but they can’t be melodic, they’ve gotta be -”

“Let me guess: noisy.”

“Nothing gets by you, eh?”

 

 

Roger: Hang on, are we filming? Dane, take my specs, there’s a good lad.

Bob: Are we ready then?

Cameraman: Speed, reel ten, take one. Slate!

Bob: I was in the lift last night with some young ladies who I think were hoping to meet you -

Roger: Purely by happenstance, of course!

Bob: Oh yes, of course.

Brian: We do get a bit of that, though it isn’t a patch on Japan.

Freddie: Oh my word, last year we had to be surrounded by bodyguards and such, we’d never seen the like! Although they go mad for us there, from the very start.

Bob: These girls were lamenting that you’d all cut your hair.

Brian: Not me!

Freddie: Yes Brian is the hippie holdout, isn’t he? So what did they say?

Bob: That you were all such sexy guys and you should have kept your hair long.

Freddie: People change, though, don’t they? You can’t stay mired in any one fashion, I tell you, it’s ridiculous. 

Bob: Are you following a trend by doing this, because it’s not as if one of you merely decided you wanted a change. Three of you now have noticeably shorter hair.

Roger: I know that image and presentation are important things to us, but my god, it’s just hair, isn’t it?

John: I never thought that long hair looked particularly good on meself, but of course they had all badgered me into it.

Freddie: Slander, darling! You had it down to your collar at least when we met you!

Brian: I’m not too inclined to change, I must say, but that’s up to me.

Freddie: Yes, you’ll have to bury Bri in those white clogs of his, I promise you!

(Laughter)

John: I think there is a fashion which is happening, and bands are taking notice. But anyone who is trying to follow something too obviously, the kids will know.

Roger: Yes, the kids always know when one is trying too hard.

Freddie: And these kids have seen us like that, haven’t they? With the long hair and flowing costumes. So now we’re giving them something a bit different, well again, except for Bri -

Brian: My costumes still fit and they’re all in good nick, so why not wear them? I need something a bit showy, you see, because of my height.

Roger: What he means is he’d disappear in the dark unless he wore that tunic, beanpole that he is.

Bob: Is it something you give as much consideration to as the lights and the set design?

Freddie: Our hair? Are you mad, darling? 

(Laughter)

Roger: Funny enough Deaky was the last to do it, though he had a great ‘do at the time. Me and Fred had ours done by the same hairdresser.

Freddie: Deaky had that sort of Chris Squire shag going, didn’t you, dear? Layers upon layers. Yes I had been thinking that we might do something new. So I consulted some people in our circle who know about such things, and Roger and I are now perfectly styled.

Bob: And why don’t you want to cut your hair, Brian?

Brian: It lends a sort of symmetry to my features, don’t you think?

Freddie: What?!

Brian: That’s what you said! You told me to grow my hair even longer, as I recall.

Freddie: _In 1973!_

Roger: Oh lord, this is going off the rails - can we please cut, Bob?

Bob: Sure.

Cameraman: Cut, run slate!


	10. Scene Nine: Monstre sacré, La Bête, L'étoile

They knew they were in trouble the moment Freddie stumbled from his new Rolls, brandy bottle in hand.

“Which one of us is being the cheap bastard?” he slurred.

“Fred, are you honestly pissed?” Brian demanded.

“Whoo!” The other shook his head vehemently as if he suddenly discovered it was cold outside the car. “Not fucking now, darling.”

“You never ask the person who’s drunk if they’re _actually_ drunk,” Roger insisted. “And I’ll have you know I paid a great bloody pile for this pile! This may be, in fact, our most expensive location yet!”

“And camera crews aren’t cheap either, Fred,” John added.

“We’re filming outside! In the snow! _Somebody_ must be being cheap!”

“We thought it might be interesting to be outside,” Brian said. “But speaking of, now that you’ve arrived can we get on with it then?”

“Wait, wait - Liza, bring me my bottle!”

“You’re holding it, luv,” Joe replied from inside the car.

“Oh this can’t be good,” Brian fretted.

“I seem to recall a certain beanpole played his very best gig dead-pissed,” Roger said.

“I think you all were lying when you told me because you were so entertained by it.”

John smirked. “That could be true. Possibly.”

“I can’t feel my feet anymore, c’mon you old queen, before we’ve all perished from frostbite!” Roger commanded.

“Mind you don’t trod in the rhododendrons!” Brian warned the crew as they took their positions. “They’re not actually dead!”

“Ratty, let me have your gloves, dear, you don’t need them right now, do you?”

The other handed over his rawhide work gloves to Freddie with a bow.

“Merci, mon cher.” Freddie took a few wavering steps towards his bandmates. “Oh goodness - I need a pee, fellas!”

Everyone on set pointed to a portable toilet which was installed further into the wooded copse beyond their makeshift stage.

“You’re joking.”

“No Fred, the house isn’t mine just yet, so we’ve actually been having a quick slash in the trees.”

“Yes we hired the bog for you, dear,” Brian teased.

“Surely your dicks must be frozen!”

Scattered laughing greeted this observation and Brian blew into his cupped hands.

“My balls **are** about ready to freeze if you keep stalling us.”

“Come along, Liza, got to make certain the fucking thing doesn’t fall over!”

As they watched the two negotiate their way over the frozen ground the rest of the band smiled fondly.

“Patience of Job, that one,” Brian said, nodding his head at Joe.

A runner came up to them, armed with a thermos and cups.

“More coffee, gents?” she asked.

“Just pour it over my head,” Roger said, only half-joking. “I can’t feel anything now any road.”

 

Although his bandmates would never again stand for him to fuss over their stage attire, Freddie examined them all without seeming to before a show: part habit, part nervous excitement.

“I’m so pleased you no longer want to wear my clothes, Liz.”

Roger gave his bandmate a teasing snarl.

“‘Sides they weren’t _all_ your clothes, just clothes you picked out for _all_ of us.”

“Well who else was suited to that task, I ask you? You? I should think not!”

“Watch it now; I had an eye, I did.”

“Did you lose it in the War then?” John quipped.

“Oi it was just a scratch it was,” Brian added in ersatz Cockney.

Freddie laughed. “Oh you idiots! How much longer, Grumpypoo?”

Gerry consulted his watch. “Time for enough for a slash, well, except for you, Fred - you’d think it wouldn’t take so long to get in and out of a leotard, would you?”

“Only if you don’t care how you look. And I _have_ to care, darling, my public demands it!”

“I think I saw someone demanding you bring back the dungarees,” Roger told John with a grin.

“Oh god no!” Freddie cried. “The white Levis are bad enough!”

“I told you, I don’t like wearing black,” John responded. “It’s too depressing!”

“Oh you’re just not meant for glamour, Johnnie, it’s tragic, simply tragic!”

“I believe it’s time for all glamourous and not-so-glamourous people to shift their arses to the stage!” Ratty called out from the hallway.

“Divas first!” Freddie proclaimed, bouncing out of his chair and grabbing Dane’s hand. 

Roger snickered and gave Brian a nudge as they undertook their nightly procession. “However did we get along without you, dear?” he called out to their frontman.

“Well of course you _didn’t_ , don’t be silly!” Freddie replied over his shoulder and then the roar of the attendant and expectant crowd swallowed all their nervous banter.

 

 

“Still think we might not get away with this,” Roger murmured. They were recording their backing “Wagnerian” choir for “We Are The Champions” and as usual had needed a few passes in order to warm up their voices and achieve the seamless blend they were known for.

“And even if we don’t - what does it matter, then? It’s like you keep saying, ‘Who cares?!’” Freddie responded

Roger grinned sheepishly. “It’s one thing to _say_ it, but quite another to _live_ it.”

“I quite like the feeling of us all being on the same side,” Brian noted, “as you said, it’s us and our audience against the world.”

“Well, it’s really just _us_ when it comes down to it, but yes, let’s have them believe they’re in it too.”

“But what is this part here -” Roger pointed to the music stand holding the lyrics sheet they were following along with so they would know when to come in on the pre-chorus and chorus. “A challenge before the whole human race? Isn’t **that** a bit over the top?”

“Did either of you ever believe we were going to fail?” Freddie asked them. “Be honest.”

“No!” Roger replied without a moment’s hesitation.

Brian did take a few moments. “Never,” he answered quietly with a smile.

Freddie held out his hands and shrugged with a grin, as if to say _Well there you are, then!_

“Right then, are we ready for another crack at the hosannas, guys?” Mike inquired over the talkback.

“Absolutely!” Freddie proclaimed. “Can you imagine - we should have flowers falling from the ceiling when we perform it!”

Brian and Roger were immediately doubled over with laughter to think of it.


	11. Scene Ten:  “This wasn’t like all those other times, I swear!"

He should have been sleeping, but he couldn’t. He never could in these instances. He lay awake with memories of those three days in New Orleans, and by the time they got to Boston he had been delirious with lack of sleep, sexual awakening, and the ache of unrequited love. Around him the hotel made various soft noises of an edifice which - much the same as his current state - never quite settled down to sleep.

He knew that his first true love did not return the sentiment, even as she desired him enough to give him all the bliss he could possibly handle. He was her willing instrument, her wanton servant.

Though he never told anyone, he blamed that interlude on his getting sick as much as anything else which had occurred. In those final days before finally succumbing to his illness he was so raw and frail and vulnerable. He burned from the inside out with his radiant obsessive love.

This warm body now, draped over his, their skin stuck together, it drove him mad and made him want to awaken her, plunder her all over again, but they had already been at it for hours and she deserved a rest before he oh so politely escorted her out of this room and his life. He could sleep in the car. Instead he allowed his mind to drift down that secret passageway off of Toulouse and up the stairs, into that steamy smoky room, rock music blaring, scent of booze and the press of bodies, and then he saw her: velvet and lace and a beauty which pierced his heart to behold it. And she saw him. And she smiled, a very wicked sort of smile.

He was hard again, and he would just have to suffer for it.

After hearing some distant clock strike four, there came a soft knocking on his door. His eyes sprung open and he carefully extricated himself from her. She let go of him with a sigh and curled around his pillow. He pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt, smiling at her, wistful and aching.

“What is it?!” Brian whispered once he reached the door.

“Can I come in?” Roger asked from the other side.

Making certain the door was unlocked, Brian quickly opened it and stepped out into the corridor, closing it behind him as quietly as he could.

“No you cannot.”

“Why not?!”

Brian widened his eyes and tilted his head towards the door and Roger opened his mouth in sudden comprehension.

“Oh.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“It’s, what, half-four? I’d say **not**. Did you have a row with Dom or something?” 

Roger grimaced. “Yes. She’s angry because stories are getting back to her - you know Dom, she has an intricate web of worldwide connections - and what can I do ‘bout that?”

“Perhaps not be so obvious about your after-hours activities?”

“Fuck off - do you think _this_ isn’t gonna get back to the missus?”

“Even if it doesn’t, whatever she’s thinking will be twice as bad as whatever I might do, forevermore.”

“I thought that had all blown over.”

“She’ll never trust me again. She’ll stay with me, but she’ll always be suspicious.”

Roger shrugged with a lopsided smile. “Love is not for the weak, I tell you that.”

“Indeed. Why don’t you try and get some sleep, eh?”

“Yes I suppose you must tend to your guest -”

“She _is_ asleep.”

“Who is she?”

“She works for one of the promoters.”

Roger smirked. “Be careful, then.”

Brian pursed his lips. “You too; what was it you said about loving a _passionate_ woman?”

“Passionate, but also _pragmatic_. Though perhaps not as pragmatic as I previously supposed.”

“She’ll _pragmatically_ have your balls for brekkie, one suspects.”

Roger sagged against the doorframe, snickering. “Owww!”

 

Brian appreciated that American journalists were all so _earnest_ , as opposed to their UK counterparts who loved to take the piss and were full up of their own discernment. The journos on the other side of the pond tended to believe in that most sacred of expressions: rock n’roll. And so finding himself in yet another anonymous coffee shop attached to yet another anonymous Holiday Inn making his case to The Land of the Free as exemplified by some guy from a local paper or news service, he did his best to comprehend the attitude he perceived from across the table.

“Yeah so this album was supposed to be faster and cheaper, but to me it still sounds just as - uh, I dunno - _pompous_ as what you did before.”

Brian blinked rapidly and scratched his nose. “Okay, but take ‘Sleeping On The Sidewalk’ for instance, that track was one take, just Deaky and Rog and me, and it does have a Chicago blues-type feel to it, I think. We did only what the song needed and no more. What did you think, have you listened to it?”

“Oh yeah, I listened to the whole album and I agree with you, only it’s in the middle of this section with a weird sex thing on one side and some Carmen Miranda bullshit on the other and I’m thinking, ‘Where is the rawness, again?’ What _are_ you guys, is what I’m asking.”

“We’re Queen, we’re just us. There’s some great rock tracks on this album.”

“Oh yeah, sure, but I guess there’s so much going on sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

Brian stared at his hands. “We’ve always been that way, you see. I understand people like to latch on to certain aspects but we’ve always done just what we wanted. We all have different ideas and we try to make _all_ those ideas work, whatever they are.”

His interlocutor shrugged and downed the rest of his coffee. “Look man, I don’t mean to break your balls, honestly, I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“Nothing good is ever easy, didn’t your parents tell you that?”

“Wait, you all listened to your parents? No wonder you’re so weird!”

Brian blinked again, not entirely certain where this joke was aimed, if in fact it was a joke.

“Sorry?”

The guy grinned and flipped his notepad shut. “I’m just funnin’ with ya. Thanks for your time.”

Brian went out to the payphone in the car park and rummaged for dimes. There was more British currency in his trousers than American but he managed to find enough change to ring the international operator.

“Caroline, who the bloody hell are these people?” he demanded once he was connected with their publicist, his frustration leaking out though he knew it wasn’t exactly her fault. She was only doing her job.

“Did he not show, Bri?” she asked. The line hissed with static and echo.

“He was an utter prat! Are they all going to be like this?”

“The Midwest is rather a different animal, they tell me. I’m sorry, I’ll do what I can with the others but then they start in with that whole ‘freedom of the press’ nonsense. So tiresome.”

“I would like to believe we’ve worked hard enough that we don’t have to be ridiculed in the process of promoting work which we are - rightfully - proud to have created.”

“Absolutely, Bri, I quite agree,” she assured him. “My other line is blinking, must dash - give my love to the lads, bye-bye!”

He placed the receiver against the switchhook with perhaps a bit more force than he meant to, looking around at the car park and the buildings and the highway beyond. He told himself what he’d been telling himself since he was a spotty gawky teenager.

_They don’t know what they’re dealing with. But they will._

 

Taking the members of Queen shopping could often mean four very different excursions, or at least a few different locales were required: Freddie preferred high-end department stores, Roger liked record stores, bookshops and funky boutiques, whereas Brian and John craved dusty antique shops and whatever store might contain the most esoteric of gadgets, especially camera equipment. America in the main was not particularly overrun with a density of such experiences.

“I tell you, darling, Japan is where it’s at when it comes to crazee shopping!” Freddie enthused to their guide - an assistant to the promoter who had arrived to shepherd them around town in a limo - as they made a circuit of their current tour stop looking for likely venues.

“The Japanese certainly have more of my money than I truly wanted to give them,” Brian joked.

“Oh live a little why don’t you?!”

“We need to stop at a chemist any road,” John noted, pointing to an Rx sign he saw displayed on a building. “I’m out of Polaroid film.”

“A what?” the assistant asked. Brian noticed she was a pretty thing, long auburn hair and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

“A drugstore, I believe you call it,” Roger replied.

“Oh sure, here - Don, pull a u-ey at that next light and go back to Thrifty Drug.”

Once they reached the destination the band entered the store wondering at the reaction of the locals to their collective appearance. A woman of advanced years was comparing boxes of hair dye in one aisle while a stock boy carefully shelved boxes of epsom salts on another. Thus ignored, John went up to the cashier and requested two packs of Polaroid SX-70 film.

“Oh they have ice cream, I want an ice cream!” Freddie exclaimed, looking towards the far wall of the store. Roger busied himself looking through certain publications at the back of the magazine rack, covered in brown paper save the masthead. Brian stood by the entrance, knowing what he wanted but not knowing how to purchase it without drawing undue attention. He joined Freddie at the ice cream counter and ordered a vanilla cone. Peter handled the transaction while Freddie and the assistant debated the merits of various flavors of ice cream.

“Rog, are you having one?” Freddie called out.

“Nah.” Roger had taken John’s place at the counter, buying two magazines and a pack of Marlboros.

“Deaky, how ‘bout you?”

“Isn’t it rather too cold for ice cream?” he asked, walking over to the rest of the group. 

Brian made a dash for the marital aids section and quickly made a selection. He then ran to the front counter and gave the cashier more money than the package was worth, whispering, “Keep the change then, right?” He stuffed the box into his jacket pocket and waited at the door for the others to catch up. Both Roger and John had decided they would indulge after all.

“Yours looks rather psychedelic, Johnnie,” Roger teased.

“It’s called Rainbow Sherbet,” John said, and Brian considered that John often did things like that, something completely apart from his bandmates in order to demonstrate that he was still his own man. Brian finished his cone without truly tasting it, his heart pounding in reaction to his small indiscretion.

“Well guys, we can go to the mall if you want, but I bet you’d get mobbed,” the assistant told them.

“Oh no dear, let’s go back to the hotel, it’s nearly teatime after all,” Freddie said and they climbed into the limo once more. A few passersby did take a moment to stare, but a lack of recognition prompted them to move on.

Brian took his place on the end of the back row so he could stretch his legs and Roger leaned over to him.

“You weren’t quite so discreet as you thought you were,” he whispered. “In case you were wondering.”

Brian felt himself blushing, but said nothing.


	12. Scene Eleven: A well-lubricated contraption

A performance post-mortem could encompass more than a few things, but it was inevitable that someone would fret or brood over one detail. More unusual was when they all might do so, though generally it wasn’t the same thing.

When the dressing room was quiet after an encore, then the mood turned thick like the swelter before a storm.

Freddie let fly with his hand mirror a few minutes after they came offstage and the others ignored it, toweling themselves off and changing clothes. Paul attempted conversation, only to receive an imperious glare from the diva. Peter searched for a broom and dustpan.

“How does the piano go out of tune when it was just tuned?!”

“Ratty’s on it, he’s getting someone in to have a look at the next gig,” Gerry assured him.

“And if it’s fucked, what I am supposed to do then?”

“They can get in another piano, can’t they?” Brian asked. “Equipment rentals are available in just about every city, Fred.”

“But why did it happen?!” Freddie shouted. “It threw me off for the rest, didn’t you see me struggling?”

“Well no, of course we didn’t because you wouldn’t allow that, would you?” Roger said. “You simply carry on, we all do.”

Freddie half-smiled then returned to his pouting, although now that he had thrown something it was decidedly less dramatic.

“There’s all sorts of things that might cause a piano to go out of tune, you see,” John said after a time. “Acoustic pianos are incredibly sensitive to weather, for example. I know you can’t stand the electrics but they’re far more dependable.”

“Not this again!” Freddie protested, but he was half-smiling once more.

John shrugged, then put a hand on Freddie’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

“And I played quite the wrong passage at the end of ‘White Man,’” Brian added, shaking his head in disgust. “Can’t believe I lost my place.”

“It’s a cascade effect, darling,” Freddie proclaimed. “This calls for a drink!”

They solemnly downed shots of vodka save for Brian, who asked for a beer instead.

Gerry’s assistant, a mere slip of a girl called Maddy, entered the room and quickly pulled her boss aside for a whispered exchange. He looked at her with a scowl.

“Did you tell ‘im we can’t be disturbed?”

She nodded, eyes wide with panic. “He started to get a bit shouty,” she replied in a low voice.

“What’s going on, then,” John asked, rising to his feet. “We won’t stand for that sort of behaviour.”

“It’s the fucking head of Mid-Atlantic promotions,” Gerry replied. “Thinks he’s important or something.”

“Tell him I will get Jac on the phone right fucking now to give him an earful, darling,” Freddie interjected, “and if he abuses our staff further then it’s definitely curtains.”

Maddy beamed at Freddie, who bowed his head in a regal fashion.

The two departed to tend to the situation and the band continued to drink, attempting to alleviate the tension.

“It is my imagination, or are the record people _worse_ here?” Freddie asked.

“There’s so fucking many of them,” Roger said, “every time I get introduced to a gaggle of the buggers they all expect me to remember their names.”

“Lucky to remember your own, the way you drink,” Brian teased.

“That’s why I’ve got Crystal, you know. He remembers everything.”

John returned to their midst with a plate of beans on toast.

“Is supper on then?” Brian asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Not quite, but I couldn’t wait.”

“Neither can I, come to think of it,” Roger said, making a run for the catering setup.

“Dave, do hurry, the natives are getting restless again,” Freddie called out. “And I need champagne, lots and lots of champagne!”

The room was a flurry of activity once more, with John serving as a sort of stillpoint, quietly eating beans on toast and considering who needed a stern talking-to later on.

 

Dawn was early in winter, but the pinkish hue of the sky was the only hint of it visible.

A gentleman was required to do the gentlemanly thing, and so Brian found himself in the mostly-deserted lobby saying goodbye - she was effusive, wanting kisses and hugs, and he only hugged her in the end, trying to be kind. But he was prepared to be unyielding if necessary.

But she knew the score, and he knew she did.

Shivering at the draft brought on by her exit, he heard the _ping_ of the elevator reaching the lobby, and there was Fred. And there was a strange boy with him. Or, if not _strange_ , definitely a _stranger_. Their eyes met and they each decided to pretend that there was nothing untoward going on. Brian moved away from the entrance, walking towards the now-shuttered lounge and its’ grand piano. Only a few hours before they had assembled for a nightcap and had hoped Freddie might come down to serenade them for a few requests, but a group of people had accompanied Paul and Freddie upstairs and no one had come down again.

Until now.

It wasn’t so strange, Brian considered, as Freddie was an early riser but to observe the solicitous fashion in which he sent this boy on his way, it cracked his heart.

What were they doing?

 _Shoveling sand into the abyss, that’s what_ , he told himself.

 

“I nearly died a few times, you see,” he said to her. 

This woman wasn’t necessarily his type - she was beautiful (Ah, but only the beautiful ones would make the cut, wouldn’t they?) but older, someone who knew a line when she heard it.

“And so that’s why you write about it?”

They were at least four drinks into their tête-à-tête, certain not to be disturbed, while Brian decided if he was drunk enough to just pull her and not think of what he truly needed. But she was interesting to talk to.

“I write about loss, and time, but not death, not really.”

“No? ‘Teo Torriatte’ isn’t about death?”

Her Japanese pronunciation was flawless. _Who are you?_ he thought. Oh yes, she was a journalist...publicist...something like that.

Brian flushed, and it wasn’t the booze this time. “Well, I suppose one could see it that way, certainly. A Romeo and Juliet sort of thing, perhaps? But it’s really just a love song.”

“There is an ending in it,” she insisted. “That first verse, you’re basically saying it’s over, so what separates you, then? It has to be death.”

_It might as well be._

“Sometimes there are impossible situations,” he said, and took another drink.

She smirked, and then it seemed as if a shadow crossed her face to reveal that she was tired of these kinds of interrogations, these kinds of assignations.

“It’s quite beautiful,” she said quietly, and Brian had decided that he would ask her. She excused herself to visit the ladies room and he waited, finishing his drink and trying not to think about why he had written that song because he didn’t want to feel desperate just now.

When Peter came over to tell him the party was breaking up he realized he hadn’t even noticed that she had never returned.


	13. Scene Twelve: Radical interpretations of the canon

Bob: Reel seven of encounters with Mr. Mercurial. (Pretends to clap a slate.)

Freddie: (laughter) I am a god, darling, but not quite so complicated as all that.

(Laughter)

Bob: We were talking backstage earlier about how you believe the audience views you.

Freddie: Right; it’s fitting that I have a persona because the kids never look at one as the actual person. It’s always what they think you are, or what they want you to be. 

Bob: You’re just the screen they project their own desires upon.

Freddie: Exactly! And that’s fine, I don’t want them to know exactly who I am, although it can be bothersome when one encounters people who expect that you should always be the same as what they see.

Bob: Do they become disillusioned then?

Freddie: Oh lord yes! Good manners can only repair so much, you know. At some point I just want to shout, “I am a person!” But I also realise that’s not what they want. And so that’s why I won’t talk to the kids like Brian does, I don’t want them to stop having those dreams.

Bob: I liked your comment about archetypes, so I rather hoped you’d say it again for the camera.

Freddie: (looks directly at the camera) Hello world!

(Laughter)

Freddie: It’s truly distilled down, I reckon: I’m the exotic one, Brian is the tall one, Roger is the blond one and John is the quiet one. How simple can you get, really? It’s so silly. We’re all so much more than that, although I will grant you there are aspects -

Bob: Is Roger particularly blond then?

Freddie: Only his hairdresser knows for sure, darling.

(Laugher)

Freddie: Brian can be far more quiet than John at times, and yet Brian has also done things that, well, it would curl your hair if I told you!

Bob: As curly as Brian’s hair is, you mean?

(Laughter)

Freddie: And Roger can be so disciplined about our work, so serious. You haven’t really glimpsed that side of him. And you likely wouldn’t unless you were in the studio with us.

Bob: Humans are complex, for the most part.

Freddie: Are they really? Because I’ve seen plenty to make me a bit suspicious, you see. But are **we** four complex individuals? Of course we are.

Bob: Okay, we’ll use that bit for the main - you can stop anytime now.

Cameraman: Let’s run this out as the reel’s almost gone.

Bob: Sure. So Freddie, what’s this about Brian -

Freddie: Oh he’d murder me! But alright - our first time in New Orleans, when we toured with Mott, we went to a club and once Bri had enough drinks in him he actually danced around with some of the girls who worked there and we nearly wee’d ourselves laughing, it was so ridiculous. They were showing him the steps and he was doing them, by God! Or trying to, any road. Rog said, “I never thought in all my life I would live to see Brian May shaking his arse!”

Bob: You didn’t give them a show that night?

Freddie: Not for free, darling, not on your life!

(Film runs out to leader.)

 

 

“Look out, I see that thundercloud above your head!” John teased as Roger entered the bar and approached their table.

“Harris, shut up,” Roger rejoined, but not without affection.

“Are you still in the doghouse then?” Brian asked.

“Did no one get me a glass of wine?” Roger said, looking around the table crowded with pint glasses. He lit a cigarette and scowled at the others.

“I sent it back!” John said, laughing. “Hang on, I’ll get you another.”

“You bloody well should!” Roger exclaimed at the other’s retreating back.

“So?” Brian asked, then sipped at his pint.

“I dunno, Bri, are **you**?”

Deaky snickered. “Am I the _only_ one who’s an angel, then?”

“Who’s an angel?” Crystal asked, rejoining the others. “I’d be careful of that loo if I were you, lads, there’s been some vomit about.”

Brian made a face. “Might as well piss in the potted palms then.” They all snickered then Brian continued, “Rog is still in dutch with Mademoiselle Beyrand.”

“Don’t I know it! P’haps you should take a page from Deaky’s book and write _her_ a song ‘stead of writing songs for Harris and all.”

“Works a treat, it does,” Deaky assured Roger.

Roger looked over at Brian with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or I could write a song about fighting with my wife-to-be but insist to _everybody_ that it really **is** a love song.”

Deaky let out with a loud guffaw. “Oh my word I’d forgotten all about that!”

“What’s that?”

Brian fixed Roger with a grimace. “Can you please just fuck off.”

“Oh let me tell it! It’s too good a tale!”

“What did I miss?” John asked as he handed Roger a glass of wine and sat down once more.

“You didn’t stand a whole round then?” Crystal demanded.

“Oi! I bought the first round, didn’t I?” John shot back.

“Yeah I think it’s your go, Crystal,” Roger said.

“And I will after I’ve heard the story.”

Roger looked over at John. “You remember ‘bout ‘Sweet Lady’ don’t you?”

John pursed his lips in thought for a moment and then grinned. “Oh yeah!”

“So we’re up in Wales and Bri comes in with this track and it’s really heavy and we’re all for that - even Fred, who doesn’t tend to be so fond of Bri’s guitar-crazy stuff. And then he shows Fred the lyrics and Fred says, ‘So this is a girl? I can’t sing like a girl in this, it’s too heavy!’ And what it is, you see, is what happened to our lad once he finally confessed his American indiscretion.”

“I waited until I was out of hospital to do it, of course.”

“Because she would have smothered you in your sleep?” Crystal asked.

Nervous laughter followed, but Brian shook his head. 

“Nah, she’s still a good Catholic girl even after all this time. That’s what my dad kept on about, you know - look what you’re doing to this sweet girl, making her live in sin with you!”

“So she’s a harridan in the song and the refrain is: _Sweet lady, stay sweet_.” Roger grinned as the others laughed, even Brian.

“It **is** meant to be a bit ironic,” Brian said.

“How’s it go, then - “ John cut in.

“You call me up and feed me all the lines  
you call me sweet like I’m some kind of cheese  
waiting on the shelf.  
You eat me up, you hold me down  
I’m just a fool to make you a home,” Roger recited.

“Is that verbatim from her harangue, then?” Crystal asked.

“Near enough,” Brian replied. “She did say something like, ‘You call me from the road and have the nerve to say I’m your sweetheart while you were behaving like a mongrel!’”

“It’s a fair cop,” Deaky noted.

“I knew it was about all that, but I didn’t know how _true_ it was!” John exclaimed.

“I thought it a proper abasement, so to speak. It’s terrible to have a row when you’re living in a bedsit no bigger than a call-box.”

“You’re exaggerating just a tad, but yeah, I had to put him up for a least a couple nights when that all went down,” Roger said.

“She nearly threw my entire penguin collection into the street, that’s how angry she was.”

“How in the world did you turn that around, then?” John asked.

Brian sighed. “A lot of groveling, of course. And I knew both our parents would have killed me if we’d broken it off over something like that. They had been waiting for us to marry for _years_.”

They indulged in more laughter, pausing to refresh themselves, then it was Crystal’s turn to buy the next round.

“I do recall you getting stick over the cheese line,” John said.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Yes, that from the man who portrayed an automobile as a sexual object.”

“Not entirely!” Roger protested. “It was a romantic song, you cretin. It has the word _love_ in it.”

“So how d’ya like that, Harris - Rog wrote you a love song!” Brian joked.

“If he _truly_ loved me he would have given me a royalty point!” John responded.

“There are limits to even my love, Harris,” Roger intoned, and they cracked up once more.

 

_Tonight Rog was in a snit, telling me what a naive ninny I am. I said I thought we would all be happier than this, and then he shouted WHO’S NOT HAPPY?!_  
_He was on something. Something more than usual, I mean._  
_But I can’t help thinking, you know, as I do. I remember when you ran your fingertips over my face, you said you were smoothing all the worries out of my head. I’m sorry I did that, sorry that I ever tried to drag you along on my guilt trip when you brought me nothing but utter joy._  
_I miss you like the ache of a phantom limb._  
_I worry about Fred because he worries about me. We were both up early again this morning and he called me “moony” again and I asked him how many hearts he’d broken this week._  
_It was strange, he looked me right in the eye and it was like when we used to talk, when we felt like we really had something to say to each other. He said, “I can’t break their hearts when it’s not me that they love.”_  
_I know what a romantic he is, and I don’t want him to lose that quality. Like me, he loves so deeply when he does love._  
_It’s 3:47 as I write this and I can’t sleep. I actually went up to the roof and scanned the sky, as it’s a fairly clear night. I remember when I was a boy and I’d drag my telescope out into the road in the middle of the night, thinking I was being so daring and rebellious. And the joke of it is I was probably the least rebellious boy there ever was. But I will never stop wondering about what’s out there. We may never truly know, but I’d like to think that in a hundred years time we’ll be that much closer to knowing if we’re really all alone._  
_I know each of us is alone, all of us in our own ways, but if you consider true isolation, and the damage it can cause…_  
_I had to stop thinking of it, it’s too late and too dark and too cold for all that now._


	14. Scene Thirteen: the things that happen

“Eh, Rats - Brian’s on the telephone for you,” one of the studio’s tea boys called out.

Ratty roused himself from observing the current Match of the Day in the lounge and took hold of the proffered receiver. “Hullo?”

“Ratty, I need you to make some calls for me, there’s been an accident.”

“Criminy, what’s -”

“It’s all right; but I wrecked my car you see, and my old girl, she was in the boot.”

 _This is what it’s like to have a coronary_ , Ratty thought. “Is she -”

“A bit scratched, but the case is completely ruined. It’s a miracle she didn’t get worse.” 

“Are **you** okay?”

“Oh I’m fine, just a bit shaken. I hit a patch of black ice and being half-asleep I _just_ managed not to succumb to _complete_ disaster.”

“I reckon you might be running out of lives to spare, Bri. But shite, your new Jag -”

Brian’s laugh was rueful. “Quite. And sod the car, though I suppose I can commend its’ Most Excellent Service to the Nation, as it were. But listen, I need you to ring Birch and tell him to come to the studio later on today so he can fix the scratches. I can’t let her go about looking like that. I thought about asking my dad, but he’d lose his head at knowing what happened. And then please find a boffin to construct the Fort Knox of guitar cases. I won’t be able to sleep till I know she’s safe.”

“What is Fort Knox?” 

“Ratty - you’re the one who knows all about America, aren’t you? It’s where they keep all their gold and such.”

“Ah, just so - I’m on it, then. Though shouldn’t you be seeing a doctor?”

“Nah, I’m fine, not even a bruise on me - but you know I would have risked a limb if it meant that she’d be unharmed.”

“Of course you would. No worries, then, Ratty’s on the case.”

Brian chuckled. “That’s clever, kid - keep it up. You know, I did flash on that time you almost killed Fred.”

“It wasn’t my fault, that bloody car had spongy brakes!”

“Well I can tell you I did **not** scream - because I was half-asleep, of course.”

“I still believe it was His Nibs who let forth a shriek and not me!”

“Well, we’ve all had our crumples now but Deaky, and he’s far too sensible for a crash.”

“That’ll be what saves him in the end, no doubt.”

 

 

Brian was now accustomed to finding Freddie loitering in the lobby, as he usually rose at the same time their assistants received the customary morning call. He hadn’t managed to quite work out why Freddie was such an early riser (loathe to speak of his formative years as Freddie was) but he had a humourous memory of crashing at the flat he shared with Roger after a gig they’d all attended and at half-six Freddie was tiptoeing around him humming to himself, and then an hour later Roger emerged from the bedroom, shouted at the both of them to keep it down and disappeared again, not reappearing until after noon. Freddie had nudged Brian with his foot around eight o’clock, saying he needed to get to work and could Brian walk to Kensington Market with him. 

Some of the intervening years were a blur, but there were moments still crystalline within his mind.

“Look at this,” Freddie said to him, gesturing out the window at the Ohio snowstorm. “Why are we always plagued with snow when we go to play Chicago?”

“I suspect it’s because we would rather have less competition - who in their right mind would want to tour at this time of year?”

“But we know there are other bands out here now.”

“I should hope we don’t run into any of them on the highway!”

“Oh I’d run Phyllis down straightaway,” Freddie joked, and Brian gave him a wide-eyed look of shock, then laughed to see his naughty smirk.

“I only hope we’ll get there on time,” Brian said, coming up to the window and tracing patterns upon the cold glass.

“I suspect that’s why we’re leaving so early.”

The band’s techs got off the elevator and upon seeing their bosses Jobby handed Crystal $20.

“Fred, Paul is about to climb the walls wondering where you’d gone off to,” Ratty told him.

“Oh fuck him! I **do** hope he attempts to find me in this blizzard.”

“Time for breakfast, chaps?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, we was told we ain’t stoppin’ for nothin’ but petrol so we need to get a big feed down us now,” Jobby responded.

When they entered the coffee shop, Ratty turned to them and smiled.

“No offense but...we have terrible table manners, as you well know.”

Freddie tossed his head and made a shooing motion. “Away with you then!”

As American breakfast cuisine was more than a bit overwhelming they tended to order the same thing, and Freddie kept his order succinct.

“Scrambled eggs, dry toast and please bring me a bottle of Tabasco. And coffee. Nothing else, darling, thank you.”

“Might I have scrambled eggs and potatoes, please,” Brian requested. “And coffee as well, thank you.”

Their techs were flirting with the other waitresses and when the woman taking their order asked the two if they were “in a band or something,” Freddie grinned at her.

“Why no, sugar, we’re haberdashers, you know. We’re delivering the latest fashions all over this great country of yours.”

Brian snickered and shook his head.

“I’d swear I saw your pictures in the paper this morning.”

“Really? They must be those impostors we’ve been hearing about. It’s quite shocking, don’t you think?”

The woman smiled uncertainly as she departed to give their ticket to the kitchen.

“You’re a caution, you are,” Brian told him with a grin and his put-on Cockney accent.

A piece of toast which had been tossed like a Frisbee cleared Brian’s tousled hair and landed square in the center of their table. They looked over at the adjoining table to see Ratty accepting $10 from Crystal.

“These side wagers are going to be the death of _someone_ ,” Freddie warned, wagging a finger at their roadies.

 

 

”What was that bit, then?” Roger teased as the band changed clothes, getting ready for a night out with their local promoter. “Are you going native on us, Fred?”

Despite the terrible weather which caused a substantial delay, the band delivered a long, loud and thoroughly entertaining show once again. Or so they tended to hope.

“We’ve been here too fucking long already!” Freddie mock-complained, peeling off his silver lamé jumpsuit and donning a pair of his infamous second-skin satin pants.

“Freddie Mercury, man of the people,” Gerry proclaimed, raising his cup. “He can even speak American!”

The band raised their cups as one. “Hear hear!”

“Thank God we’re going somewhere warmer next,” Freddie exclaimed. “I kept feeling a draft by my piano; I half-suspected Ratty was doing it to throw me off!”

“Even under the lights? That’s quite unusual.” Brian noted, pulling on his rainbow-striped socks. “‘Liar’ was great, don’t you think?” he asked, and everyone nodded. 

“Longer than usual, but I didn’t even notice till it was over.” John said, pulling on a jumper over his t-shirt and button-down shirt against the frigid weather they were about to encounter once more.

“But not longer than your solo,” Freddie gibed, then grinned and swatted Brian with his towel.

“Oi! Only just, it was!”

“Did you get the pliers under your frock, dear?” Freddie asked Roger. “You hit that A5 square tonight!”

“I think I must have caught that draft as well!” Roger replied, grinning. He toweled his now-dry hair then mussed it up once more for good measure. “But it went down really well tonight, don’t you think? Got a real big noise with that one.”

“Did I hear Bruce say he was going to take us to Lawry’s tonight?” Freddie asked. “I want to see the ghosts!”

“What?!” Roger and John exclaimed.

“Yes dears, it’s in a mansion and it’s supposed to be haunted!”

“As long as something - or someone - serves me prawn cocktail, they could **all** be ghosts,” Brian declared, putting an end to the discussion and gesturing for everyone to depart the dressing room. “We’ve not eaten since breakfast after all!”


	15. Scene Fourteen:  The Journey of the Ambivalent Hero and his band of Monochrome Marauders

Bob: Are you ready then, Brian?

Brian: (grimaces, then smiles): Certainly.

Cameraman: Speed, reel fifteen, take one. Slate!

Bob: I know we previously discussed this, but those rumours regarding a falling-out, do those sorts of things affect you at all?

Brian: It’s an annoyance more than anything, I suppose. Because you start to wonder who’s behind it and why.

Bob: But no basis in fact, then.

Brian: Well no - we fight, as you well know, there’s usually a fight every day about _something_. But that’s been since the very beginning. That’s just the way we are, we’re all very passionate about things and we defend our corner, as it were. I suppose I can imagine that if someone happened to hear one of our rows they might well think it’s the end because we **can** get stroppy. But that’s just someone who doesn’t know us at all, then. We’ve worked too hard to let this go off the rails.

Bob: You’re all very sensible, really, I think that is the big secret.

Brian: (soft laughter) I think many bands are more sensible than people suspect. But then the press comes at you and says you’re being calculating or something, and that’s particularly tiresome. Primarily because calculating your chances of success is not a bad thing, not to my mind.

Bob: It’s the scientist in you, one suspects.

Brian: (blinks rapidly and scratches nose) Perhaps. I’m always thinking ahead, I suppose. I worry a lot, as you know.

Bob: Do you believe you worry **more** than anyone else?

Brian: More than the others, you mean?

Bob: Yes.

Brian: Well I have an ulcer so I suppose the answer is yes! 

(Laughter)

Brian: But then again that began long before I met Rog, so -

Bob: Or is it that perhaps you all worry about different things?

Brian: Yes, that’s a fair statement, certainly. We’re united but we also have our own concerns.

Bob: John with the business side of things, for example.

Brian: (chuckles) Yes, the Sheffield brothers didn’t know quite what they had wrought when they told John they were not obliged to give him an advance on money he was going to earn.

Bob: But you’re clear of all that now.

Brian: Primarily, yes. It certainly cost us - we literally had to _buy_ our way out of that predicament but it was necessary.

Bob: Do you feel bruised by what happened?

Brian: (frowns) I’m not certain what you mean?

Bob: In the emotional sense.

Brian: I think I took on less so than, say, Freddie or John. But we all have our own reactions to things. I think I had been through so much with my illnesses and such that for a while, at least, I couldn’t feel -

Bob: You were emotionally numb, then?

Brian: (blinks rapidly and scratches nose) Yes, I suppose you might say that.

 

“Look at these,” Freddie said, handing over a section of newspaper to the others. “We’re back to the old monochromatic look.”

“Well that wasn’t on purpose, was it?” Roger countered, examining the photographs accompanying a review of the previous night’s show. “Deaks just happened to wear his black shirt last night.”

“I like black-and-white,” Brian asserted. “I don’t have to think about it.”

“I look better in white,” Roger said, “Blonds often do, of course.”

Freddie grinned and nudged him. “Are you having more fun then?”

“Certainly more fun than those two,” Roger teased, pointing at Brian and John.

“You just don’t _see_ the fun I’m having,” John replied. “Too busy trying to pull everyone in the place.”

“Yes don’t be greedy, Splodge,” Freddie teased. “You can’t juggle more than two at a time.”

“Don’t be jealous, Deaky,” Roger said with a grin, “You get to dance with them first, don’t you?”

“Stop the presses!” Freddie exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. “Where did you go last night?!”

“Oh it was just a titty bar,” Roger replied, rolling his eyes. “But Johnnie got a wiggle in him and the next thing we knew he was the center of attention. I must say, I had no idea you knew how to do The Hustle!”

“When I’m pissed I can do all sorts of things.” This bit of information was delivered with a cheeky grin and a wink.

“That’s going to be your epitaph, darling,” Freddie announced, placing his hands on John’s shoulders and gently shaking him.

“Mine’s going to be ‘Mind The Gap,’” Roger cracked and they all laughed.

“I actually thought about it when I was in hospital,” Brian said, turning the conversation more serious than it was meant to be. “I told my dad that if it came to that I wanted _Ad Astra_ on my stone and he smiled and said, ‘Not if I can help it.’”

What ‘bout you, dear,” Roger asked their diva.

Freddie pulled a face and threw his arms wide again. “I’m not going to _die_ , how tiresome. I’ll just dissolve into the ether when I’m no longer fabulous.”

“Can’t imagine that being the case,” Brian said with a smile.

“Oh Bri, I’m still going to get Jobby to turn down your Wall of Doom every night, so flattery will get you nowhere!”

“And he’ll turn it back up if he knows what’s good for him!”

The others shook their heads at Brian and the talk moved on to more frivolous concerns.

 

 

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you _exactly_ what your problem is,” Roger said, leaning in to fix Brian in his drunken blue appraisal. Brian noted Roger’s eyes seemed lighter than he thought they were, perhaps they were the type which changed with one’s mood. But it wasn’t Roger’s eyes which tended to cause a searching gaze to linger - it was the nearly perfect symmetry of his features. Because Roger had been blessed nigh from birth with what could arguably be considered as beauty rather mere attractiveness, he tended to believe he was right in all things. But it was an arrogance tempered with great humor and an equal amount of self-deprecation.

“You _have_ to be a hero, you _want_ to be. For real.”

Brian blinked and considered his empty glass. “That’s just ridiculous.”

“No it’s not, you have it in your mind that you would have _saved_ her, I know it. You want to be a good man, but instead of, say, just trying to be decent as most attempt, you have to somehow save people.”

“I don’t -”

“ **Yes you do**. I’ve known you _forever_ it feels like sometimes and I know your complex.”

“I don’t have a complex!”

“You are such a miserable sod sometimes, I fucking swear it.”

“Because I think about the deeper consequences of things? Is that so awful?”

“No, but my god - I look at you sometimes and you are just -”

“I’m sorry it’s such a _burden_ for you.”

Roger stood up, swaying, his face screwed up into something halfway between laughter and anger. All around them people were, seemingly, having a good time. They had tried to do so as well, but some nights there wasn’t enough booze to drown them, to smooth the rough edges of their eternal friction.

“I think about the deeper consequences of things too, y’know. Like what will happen when you finally crack right down the middle.”

Roger lurched away and Brian sat very still, looking at the glass, wishing it were full once more.

And that was an easy task...whatever they wanted, right?

_But not for you._


	16. Scene Fifteen: "Someday we'll laugh about this.  Probably."

“You have such expressive eyes,” she told him.

She had posed willingly for him, but then again they all did. All were fascinated by his stereoscopic camera when produced. Brian explained the effect and showed them some examples he carried with him, enjoying the gasp of surprise when the effect was made actual and the image sprang to life before their eyes.

“It’s so real,” she murmured, marveling at what she saw.

He posed for her, then, and he was seduced by how gently she handled his treasure, with the kind of reverence it deserved, this piece of technology so whimsical it seemed closer to magic.

He wouldn’t keep these photos, of course.

“Smile,” she said, and he _tried_ to. But his impulse was never to smile when a camera was pointed his way, and he wasn’t certain why; he hadn’t smiled in photographs since he was a boy, when the world was simpler. Although there were those moments when laughter was captured - he flashed on the shoot for _Sheer Heart Attack_ , Freddie kept making quips about Roger’s “wig” and they could not stop laughing for what seemed like at least an hour. Mick had threatened that the final cover image would be one far less impactful than their original concept if they couldn’t get it together. 

These types of complimentary phrases which were offered now, by girls who thought they loved him, bounced off him like rocks missing a target.

“What am I expressing?” he asked and then he smiled, attempting to flirt.

She pressed the shutter and frowned.

“Something deep,” she replied. “Something I don’t think even you know.”

He did understand that they _believed_ him when he looked in their eyes.

_“I trust you,” she had said on their very first date. “I feel I could trust you with anything.”_

He carefully divested her of the instrument and met her gaze, searching for whatever might explain to him why his life only ever seemed to snap into focus when he desired, and was desired in turn. He ran calloused fingertips along her arm and took pleasure in the shiver she gave, closing her eyes. He closed his eyes too, all the better to expunge himself from responsibility as he leaned forward - to meet her, to know her, in the most ephemeral of ways.

 

Cameraman: This is reel six, take three. Speed. Roll slate!

Bob: Roger, I rather wondered about the famous Queen harmonies. I was listening to the Smile recordings when preparing for this -

Roger: (chuckles) Really? Juvenalia, they are.

Bob: You really think so? Because I could hear the cornerstone of that particular sound, most definitely.

Roger: Well it’s true, yeah. I remember, when Brian and Tim came ‘round to my flat and I played with them, you know it was rather off-the-cuff because I didn’t have my kit but we played a few things, and I joined in with their singing - I think we all thought, "Hang on, now **this** is something!" Because those two already had their blend, y’know, from the years they’d been playing together. But it was instantaneous. I’d never experienced anything like it in all my life. And so we carried on with that idea in the back of our minds, that we must always have that kind of harmony blend. So when Freddie first started making noises that we should be in a band together I know we both said, "Look, the harmonies need to be spot-on, and we don’t know if we can harmonize with you at all." Fred had a voice that could carry, certainly, but he couldn’t control it. He ran right over whoever else might be singing in those other bands. And Brian and I knew how to blend our voices - I knew I was always on top whenever we harmonized. It was easy with Tim because we were all distinctive in our ranges: I was on top, Tim was in the middle because he had that kind of tenor that could carry and fill up the mid-range, and Brian’s voice was airy but he tended to sing a step below us so it filled in the bottom.

Bob: And yet you’ve got that sort of raspy rock n’roll feel when you sing lead.

Roger: Yeah that was my rebellious streak, you see, after all that polite Church music and such. I wanted to be exactly what I heard, all the rock n’roll coming out that we went crazy for, so I started doing that, singing rather more rough. But Brian and Tim brought my range out of me; I always knew I could reach that high part but I couldn’t see the use in it, the kind of music I was playing in other bands.

Bob: So how did Freddie learn to control his voice?

Roger: He taught himself. That’s a thing people don’t know about Fred - he can do anything he _wants_ to do, I swear it. He’s brilliant at figuring things out when he really wants to. Taught himself to sing, to write songs, even to play piano the way he wanted to, which is not a learned style. So he figured out how to pitch his voice in a more controlled manner, and more importantly, how to sing with us. I reckon he wore out the Smile tapes we gave him, singing along with us, although of course once we decided he was ready then we immediately started working up new bits.

Bob: It truly is one of the most brilliant harmony blends I’ve ever heard.

Roger: (laughs softly) Overdubbed rather a lot, but yeah, I remember the first time we recorded at De Lane Lea - besides being amazed at these songs, which in our naivete we thought were pretty brilliant - our voices, multi-tracked, we looked at each other as if to say, “Is that us?!”

Bob: Does that sort of multi-tracked to infinity style get a bit unwieldy sometimes?

Roger: (laughs) It gets _ridiculous_! Everyone’s heard those stories of the tape going transparent, and you start to wonder if there’s any difference between doing something nine times as opposed to twelve times or fifteen times - but Freddie has a vision in his head and that’s what he wants. And I must say it does work more often than not. Like on “Somebody To Love,” for example. I’m still not quite sure how I managed that one - but my god doesn’t it sound glorious!

Bob: So that was rather more difficult than “Bohemian Rhapsody?”

Roger: You’ve no idea! (laughter) With “Bohemian Rhapsody” it was smaller parts to sing, but we had these actual lines in “Somebody To Love” and so to sing in that register for extended phrasing - I thought I might die at a few moments, and there’s Fred pushing me on and so I persevered just to fucking show him I could!

Bob: And you certainly did!

Roger: I’m a stubborn bugger that way. (laughter)

 

The door to the tuning room was posted with a stringent warning.

**ACCESS ALLOWED FOR ARTISTS AND QUEEN EXECUTIVE CREW ONLY**  
**NO OTHER ADMITTANCE**

Below this, Crystal had added in thick black marker: THIS MEANS YOU.

The tuning room was their sanctuary, and at the moment the door was shut against whatever mid-afternoon rustlings were occurring in the backstage area. Ratty changed out the strings on all of John’s primary basses while his boss got a bit of kip on the air mattress they kept there. The man could sleep anywhere, anytime, and it was a wonder what a 20-minute nap could do for his general demeanor.

The knob turned, but Ratty had locked the door - by order of said artist.

“Deaky c’mon, you promised!” he heard Brian exclaim on the other side. “I’ve got the board all set up.”

Those lichen-colored eyes of John’s blinked to waking life, then his eyebrows shot up in annoyance. He sat up, sighing.

“Did I actually sleep?” he asked Ratty.

The other shrugged. “Maybe 15, I reckon?” 

“Well enough then.” He stood up, slid on his shoes and departed. Ratty sighed, luxuriating in a bit of alone time, a rarity for his profession and then another department head entered - AAA pass #15, to be exact.

“Are you done yet? Christ, c’mon, let’s get in a game before all the wankers turn up!” Crystal enthused.

“I vant to be alone,” Ratty declared in his best Garbo.

“Nah y’don’t, you wanna attempt to divest me of my per diem, mate, c’mon then.”

Ratty surrendered because - much like _his_ boss - Crystal would not give up when he wanted something, which in this case was a game of cribbage. But he quickly realised that by _wankers_ Crystal did not mean the band, as when they entered the dressing room Brian and John were already sat before a game of chess, and Freddie and Roger were playing a sort of ersatz squash with a handball against the far wall, trying to bounce it as high as they could then catch it again, but the actual results were rather chaotic. At one point the ball sailed between Brian and John, hit the wall next to them, then bounced against the table, causing the chess pieces to wobble. John snatched the ball out of the air with a lightning-fast reflex while Brian held onto the chess board, grimacing.

“Fuck’s sake!” Brian snapped at Freddie and Roger, not raising his voice so much as allowing his pique to infuse it fully. “If it happens again I am shoving that ball up someone’s arse.”

Freddie pulled a comically shocked face. “Oooh Maggie The Cat shows her claws! Me-ow!”

Ratty and Crystal also laughed, knowing the source of the joke, though strictly speaking it should have applied to the Liz of this outfit.

“Have you been in the vodka already, Percy?” Roger inquired, holding out his hand for the ball. John gave it an overhand toss and Roger jumped up, not quite nimbly, but he caught it.

In their world, dummers were not athletes, necessarily, but Roger was one of the more clumsy people Ratty had ever known. It was a wonder he didn’t injure himself more in the pursuit of his profession. Of course much of that could be attributed to refusing to wear his glasses when he should. Each night Crystal didn’t so much accompany Roger to the stage as _guide_ him to it.

Brian held up two fingers in reply and they all returned to their distractions.

“So who usually wins with those two?” Crystal asked, with a discreet nod towards the chess game.

“They’ve never managed to finish a game yet,” Ratty replied _sotto voce_ as he perused his cards.

“Figures. I reckon Percy does _everything_ that slow.”

They snickered, and luckily for them Freddie and Roger were making so much noise no one noticed the veiled insubordination. Then again, their superiors were adept at mocking themselves when they chose to - but it was never a good idea to assume they _wanted_ to.


	17. Scene Sixteen: You don’t own me (or, just a small percentage at best)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifty kudos, whoo-hoo! My gratitude to everyone who has taken the time to leave kudos and comments, I appreciate it more than I can express. I know this type of historical fanfic isn't necessarily the most popular in the fandom, but it's written with love and fascination for those four singular personalities and if you enjoy then THANK YOU!

Brian was weaving slightly in front of his door, and behind it the phone rang with a particularly robust peal. _Sod it_ , he thought, rushing just made his coordination worse. Too much wine with the Rainbow Trout Oscar he’d enjoyed courtesy of their Texas promoter, who had also accompanied the band shopping for boots and clothes, and whatever other items tickled their fancy. John had succumbed to the temptation to acquire one of the relatively new Keystone Super 8 cameras.

“Goodness me, we have enough cameras to make our _own_ documentary, don’t we?” noted Freddie at dinner, who had already gone through several Polaroid cameras (he kept giving them away to various people in his entourage and in the crew). John raised his eyebrows at the comment and had a sip of the Tequila Sunrise he had stolen from Freddie.

Brian took a moment, fumbling with his room key, to thank the Great Spirit for creating that most delicious trout. The minute he crossed the threshold, the bell ceased.

“Naturally,” he muttered to himself, tossing his key onto the bed and switching on the overhead light. After a few minutes of attempting to decide whether he wanted to shower now or the next day, Roger entered and fell upon his bed.

“Oh what now?” Brian asked, but in a teasing fashion.

“Want some tea. Want some _English_ tea,” Roger replied, doing his best to look pitiful and deprived; which was fairly easy for him, as Brian knew from their long acquaintance.

“And I ask you again: why don’t you bloody well bring your own?!”

“But why? You bring enough to supply us all!”

“I bring enough to supply _myself_ for the entire tour, thank you.”

“C’mon! I told Crystal to ring that shop in New York tomorrow, the one we went to last time that sells all the goodies. But they probably can’t deliver for a few days.”

“Wish you’d told me! I’m running low on Walkers’ biscuits.”

“I’ll arrange it, then - please, I’m gagging for a cuppa!”

Brian sighed and dug in his carry-on for his small stash of PG Tips, which he periodically refilled from the boxes he kept in one of his wardrobe cases. He handed Roger a teabag with great formality.

“You’ll owe me for this.”

“You can’t have any of my matchbooks, I _need_ them.”

“Not to worry, I’ll think of something.”

“Where’s your kettle, then?”

“Go back to your room!”

The phone rang once more, and as Brian was distracted in answering it, Roger began rummaging around for the electric kettle he knew Brian carried in his rolling suitcase.

“H’llo?” Brian said, his head starting to feel fuzzy. He really shouldn’t have drunk all that wine.

“Found it!” Roger exclaimed, holding the appliance above his head.

“Hi sweetheart - no, that was just Rog, come to beg a cuppa. What? No honestly, hang on.”

Brian held out the receiver to Roger, who was in the bathroom filling the kettle. “Here, I’ll let you stay if you assuage the suspicions of my wife, please.”

Roger stuck out his tongue and they traded places.

“H’llo there mum, how are you feeling?” Roger asked. “Yes, I am in the process of making a cup of tea. What? Haven’t drunk _enough_ , that may well be the problem! Is everything going alright then? Yeah? Okay then, hang on.”

He handed the phone back to Brian, and raised his eyebrows with a sort of _better you than me, mate_ expression.

“So how was your appointment yesterday?” Brian asked, once he was back on the line. “Yeah? Well that’s good, then. Oh? What rubbish - I swear the G.P. I went to for the insurance physical said the same, it’s ridiculous. Look, I left the card for that naturopath by the telephone in the bedroom, you might want to ring her, I’m sure she can tell you what you should be eating for your iron count. No, I don’t know _who_ she is, but Jacky recommended her, said she specialised in treating pregnant women with different dietary requirements and such. Yes of course it’s up to you, I suppose I mean that you shouldn’t let the doctor try to bully you. Do you want me to ring him? I will if you like. No, I know you can do it yourself. Okay, I’m sorry luv, I didn’t mean to imply -”

Roger, awaiting the kettle to boil, had found Brian’s packet of Mr. Kipling’s Viennese Swirls and helped himself to one, dusting the bed with crumbs.

“Roger get out of my biscuits!” Brian snapped. “Sorry luv. No, _of course_ I was expecting your call, I told the promoter we had to be in by 2.”

Roger gave Brian a wide-eyed look of astonishment. Brian shot the bird in reply. They were in America, after all.

“Is everything else all right? Your car is running okay? Dad said he would be over to look at it next week. What? A bill? The bills are supposed to go straightaway to the accountants - just send it to the office, they’ll know what to do with it. The address should be in the large book, the one in the study. So you’re alright? Managing to keep something down now? That’s good, then. No, we haven’t been out this week, except for dinners with the promoter. Had a lovely bit of trout tonight. Was waiting for your call when Truro’s Favourite Son came a-knocking. Alright then, I love you - ring me again soon. Oh, did you get my postcards? Yeah? Those were the nicest ones I could find. Okay luv, speak soon, and remember not to try and do too much - call the service to clean, we can afford it. Bye-bye.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “This is _exactly_ why I’m against marriage - you’re the one who sounds like an accountant.”

Brian grimaced. “And so then, Mr. Anti-Bourgeois, why did you tell that nice couple that you were planning to propose?”

“Because it doesn’t matter, we’ll never fucking see them again! And I’m not the only one who bent the truth a bit, was I?”

Brian chuckled, the kettle chimed, he set out two cups and prepared their tea. “I read about the mood swings, but the mood swings of a woman who is already suspicious are nigh on _paranoid_.”

“You think once the baby comes then she’ll snap out of it?”

Brian sighed. “I hope so.” Hearing the crinkle of a packet he turned around with hands on his hips. “You better have saved me at least _one_ biscuit,” he warned his bandmate.

Roger grinned from his slump on the bed, his shirt a veritable landscape of crumbs, jam and cream. “Whaddya know?” he said, holding open the packet. “One indeed.”

“Idiot,” Brian muttered and snatched the packet from his hand.

“It’s Freddie’s revenge for eating his almond slices.”

“One bloody time!”

“ _Un chien de ma chienne_!” Roger declared.

“And what does **that** mean?”

“It’s something Dom yelled at me the other night, so I reckon it’s akin to _shove it_.”

“Oh yes, let’s move on to your problem then.”

“No, let’s not. I want to drink this tea and stop feeling so wretched.”

Brian smiled and handed Roger a cup. “Nothing a cuppa can’t fix, they say.”

“Who are _they_? I don’t think they have _our_ problems.”

Brian chuckled and carefully dunked his biscuit. “But they’re welcome to them, certainly.”

 

Continual travel imbues one with the need to document what one cannot dwell upon, when movement is constant and connection is fleeting.

Easier, then, to hide behind any number of conceits: a persona, standing upon a stage, not meant to do anything other than distract all in attendance from desiring to penetrate within, peer behind, pry underneath.

Armed with cameras they set about to record all they could, in order to remember, in order to document the adventure they had all - or if not _all_ , then at least _most_ \- expected they would experience.

The first time they flew to Japan, Freddie made a unlikely (for him) admission, after enduring the whinging of the others regarding the length and bad weather of the flight.

“My dears, you know _nothing_ of long journeys. As a boy I once spend several days on a train all alone. In a land completely foreign to me. Now **that** is terror.”

They had all quieted, and though desiring to provide condolence they were halted by the look in his eyes. Freddie could not stand pity in any form.

“I was well past being cosseted, you know. You lot honestly don’t know how good you’ve had it!”

Though they could have protested in specific ways, Freddie’s origins were still somewhat of a mystery to them all, and thus something not open to debate or commiseration. He looked out the window at the clouds, his face closed to their scrutiny.

When everything is a sleep-deprived, starved of daylight, blur, it’s easier to remain behind the lens, on the other side of the glass, upon the stage where it’s not required to know that of which you pass through, or whom of which you pass by.

A presence in absence of a kind, those moments relegated to a maelstrom of determined ambition. It takes a certain detached arrogance to conquer the world.

 

Freddie: (runs into the frame and pretends to clap a slate) Oh just get on with it, Deaky! (runs out of frame, laughing)

Cameraman: This is take seven. Speed. Roll slate!

Bob: John I wondered if you might undertake an experiment with me.

John: (grinning) I suppose it depends on what it is.

Bob: As you're characterized the quiet one, then it stands to reason that you hang back and observe.

John: (shrugs) I pay attention to what I believe is important, certainly. But not necessarily everything.

Bob: I wondered if you had some insight into the others which might not be obvious to fans.

John: Well, one considers that some things aren’t meant to be obvious, after all.

Bob: Certainly. If you would prefer another line of inquiry -

John: That’s all right, I suppose.

Bob: Let’s start with Freddie.

John: Freddie’s actually quite shy, I imagine he might have told you.

Bob: More or less.

(Laughter)

John: People think Freddie runs everything, and of course that’s not true. We’re all quite forceful in that way. But I’ve spent many an evening with Fred where we didn’t get up to much other than some telly and a cup of tea. But he knows how to be that big personality when it’s necessary; and that’s good for us because **none** of us could ever do what he does, not in a million years.

Bob: So none of you have aspirations in that area.

John: The very thought makes me want to vomit! (laughs)

Bob: Let’s move onto Roger, then.

John: Hmm, I think people perhaps have an idea of Roger that’s not quite correct.

Bob: How so?

John: They tend to underestimate him, I reckon. And he’s really quite keen, quite observant.

Bob: Because he’s a drummer, perhaps? Or overtly attractive?

John: All of the above.

(Laughter)

Bob: And finally Brian.

John: Brian **is** actually what he appears to be.

Bob: Wouldn’t you say the same of yourself?

John: Well, I have my moments of being, perhaps, rather more social or forceful than I normally might be. But Brian, I don’t believe he knows how to draw upon something manufactured to represent himself. And that’s not always good for him, he’s the one most apt to have his feelings injured or his ego bruised.

Bob: That’s interesting because I would have reckoned it would be Freddie who is rather sensitive.

John: Fred is sensitive when it comes to people he knows. But he’s a little tougher now when it comes to people on the outside. 

Bob: I get the feeling from Brian that he’s ambivalent about this whole business.

John: Brian is ambivalent about _life_ itself.

(Laughter)

Bob: Ah, it’s that infamous Deacon pithy summation I've been told about!

John: (waves his hands in front of his face, laughing)


	18. Entr’acte: ...but I’ll learn to be right

Ever since he was a child, Brian’s dreams had always been widescreen hyperreal landscapes sometimes nightmarish, sometimes delirious, sometimes wondrous. And he tended to be wrenched from his dreams, torn out of that liminal wonderland into the waking world where he had to pause and reassure himself he was now here, rather than the nowhere of the cortex.

_Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

He had awakened, with a phantom weight and warmth upon him, a memory transformed into a dream: of her subtle torture, her delicate gyrations, as she took him in the most gentle of ways. Before their meeting, just a week prior, he had been subject to the eager ministrations of others, allowed himself to be - but none of the others, so willing to school him, to conquer him, could truly touch him.

Not like _her_.

At the center of the dance floor, something soulful playing, everyone else had left the club save Pete and a couple of the promoter’s flunkies, and they danced; though not so much dancing as synchronized swaying, and they were locked in a continual kiss. He had never been so openly affectionate in his life, but he could not stop the slippery chase of their tongues, against the smoothness of her lips, faint taste of rum and wet heat of her need, her fingers tangling in his curls. He had never danced, had always kept to the periphery of dances, staring at girls and not having the slightest idea how to talk to them.

But _she_ had unlocked all which was inside of him. He held her like she was all which stood between him and oblivion.

_You are everything_  
_and everything is you._

Four o’clock in the morning and the detritus of the nightlife was quietly drinking, awaiting the dawn, and he wanted to stay in that moment forever. Forget about every other thing in his life.

His conscious, waking mind now played that song, no need to actually hear it, not anymore.

_I just can't go on_  
_living life as I do_  
_comparing each girl with you_  
_knowing they just won't do_  
_they're not you..._

 

“Thought you’d gone to bed,” John said to him.

Brian blinked, forgetting where he was for a moment. He’d awoke and too lonely to try and sleep again he came down to the lounge to drink. It was now past two but it appeared the management didn’t particularly mind the late-night clientele. Some of the crew clustered in booths across the room and their raucous laughter was like white noise for him. He could stop thinking, and wasn’t that a mercy.

“Where’d you go, then?”

“Club - it was fun. Lots of dancing.”

“Good for you then,” he said, smiling. John sat down and ordered a beer.

“You don’t have to sit up with me if you don’t care to,” Brian told him, taking another small sip of vodka. He was on his third and yet no further anesthetized than he longed to be.

“S’fine. I’m not quite sleepy yet.”

“Nor I.”

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

Brian blinked at John’s insightful non-sequitur and the light hit his face in such a way that his eyes seemed to glow, more than they usually did, John considered. Brian’s eyes made John think of a thicket, tangled bramble, a place one could never truly penetrate. But his face was generally without pretense...a strange combination for certain.

He sighed after a time, then shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“I think you made the right decision.”

“It was the **only** decision.”

“You really don’t believe you had a choice?”

“Oh Deaky, _of course not_. You know the rows I had with my dad over us living together. And it would have killed Mum, I know it. And how could I have done that to Chrissy? She stood by me, all those years, endlessly propping me up through everything. We were good as married from the start. For god’s sake she drafted my thesis, you know, I would dictate it to her and she would write it down, change some of the wording if I’d gone wrong - she gave me _everything_ she had. How could I betray that?!”

“But you did.”

Brian sighed again and drained his drink. “But I did. It wasn’t her I was pushing against, I don’t think.”

“You wanted _something_ , obviously. Something you didn’t already have.”

“Yeah.”

“Might have been kinder then.”

“Kinder for whom? No, my life would have resembled an impact crater, I reckon. I **had** to go through with it, there was no other way.”

“You’ll always have us.”

Brian smiled, a millisecond of gratitude. “When she told you that she knew for certain, what did you think?”

John smiled in a half-rueful way, then pursed his lips. “One always expects that might be the outcome.”

“Oh we’d been _careful_. I think she knew it would have sent me ‘round the bend if that had happened before it was supposed to.”

“Well I thought it was alright, that p’haps it was meant to be after all. I only hoped that we could keep on with this, rather than me having to sort out how to make a living some other way.”

“Oh you’re eminently employable, Mr. Deacon, ‘pon my soul you are.”

John chuckled. “And I reckon you could have been too, if you’d really wanted it. But what **do** you want, Brian?”

Brian rubbed a hand across his face before replying, his beard already beginning to shadow his chin.

“I have no bloody idea. Pitiful, right?” He shook his head, seemingly bemused by his own foolishness.

“Human,” John replied with a shrug.


	19. Scene Seventeen: A far-off princess will remain ever so.

At soundcheck, as he was waiting for the others to stop fucking about, he found himself playing the plaintive chords of “White Queen,” just for something to do, and Roger called out from the drum riser, “Ah yes, Our Bri from his _La Belle Dame sans Merci_ period.”

And it struck him just then...he did **do** that, didn’t he? Leave it to Rog - who had no use for writing about women in the allusions of Courtly Love. Every woman was potentially obtainable to him. The idea of a woman who wasn’t was strictly laughable.

Brian didn’t know how they managed to worm their way into every edifice the band happened to inhabit while in America, but these girls hunted in packs. Every one of them embodying some archetype: bitchy, witchy, sprite and siren alike. Hot and cold, virgin and whore. He sat down on one of his equipment cases and scrawled phrases on the back of the previous night’s setlist.

_I’ve seen every blue-eyed floozy on the way._

He smirked, thinking of the one who resembled that description more than any other. The one who could always suss what he was thinking, and mock him with an affection cloaked in derision; the way which Brian knew it was affectionate was that Roger would not deign to do so for anyone not worth the effort.

Then there were the girls the crew ended up with: the girls who were uninhibited, unashamed, and - according to all accounts - just plain fun. He knew the lads tended to view this endless supply of American girls as the true reward of their heavy lifting and their tightrope tiptoeing through the minefield of egos and unapologetic demands. American girls were a breed unto themselves, sexually adventurous and more than likely ready to take what they thought they wanted. And as Jobby had assured him, even the _least_ attractive of them was a great lay.

Those girls who had set their cap for him in ‘74, they met him as a determined body politic, claiming him for their pleasure, playing upon his vanities.

_You’re the nicest one, you know, you’re such a gentleman._

And he blushed and nodded and continued to play for them, indulging their whims, attempting to forestall the moment they fell upon him as one.

Not that he succeeded. But the act itself took place outside of his perception of himself - Brian floated above the tableau of flesh and decadence, much as in a dream he’d once had on a trip to Tenerife, having fallen asleep on the beach and believing he could fly. He kept going up and up, through the layers of atmosphere, passing from the blue into the black. He awoke when his dreaming mind realized that he wouldn’t be able to breathe if he kept going into outer space.

He watched them do things to him, and every time he attempted to reciprocate, they laughed and pushed him down again.

He had always wondered if it was his inexperience they were laughing at.

They did not mean to wound, not with all the attention they gave him, bringing him to the brink so many times that when he finally fell from the precipice it was painful, an absolute wrenching, grinding release which left him wondering for a few seconds if he had died. But his heart was pounding too hard for that to be an actuality.

No one was awkward, no one was silent, no one was brushing back tears. Not even him.

_O what can ail thee, wretched wight,_  
_Alone and palely loitering?_  
_The sedge is wither'd from the lake,_  
_And no birds sing._

Brian knew the conflict, had known since lying abed for those long weeks of recuperation...like the knight abandoned on the hillside, dying for love, the world reduced to a kind of eternal gloaming.

That other love, the love of his very best friend, contained a distinct lack of romance in its’ workings. There was trust, mutual regard, humour, abiding affection, and comfort. But his heart had not and did not _yearn_ for her, ever. This was not her fault. He accepted his lot because he had long assumed such things were not meant for him. He was not ungrateful for what he did have, knowing how unlikely it was to have occurred at all. She had taken him in hand in her own way and he followed along, relieved by her determination to claim him.

And then everything had changed simply by entering a room and meeting his _princesse lointaine_. Even as she was right in front of him, and then walking into his arms as if this moment had been predetermined before either of them were born, he knew the distance, knew it as if he had traveled it for all of his life. _She_ would never be the home wherein he dwelt.

But to know that specific enchantment, even for the briefest of spans...he was different now. There was no returning to the hinterland where he had dreamed of things he knew he would never know, never attain. That naive landscape unfettered by cruel considerations.

And those things he **did** attain...he was now the pale king, alone in the mist, able only to view his kingdom as if in a dream, illusion binding the effort and fulfillment, but illusion fading when once more alone in a night which seemed eternal.

Activity swirled around him, noise and motion and controlled chaos. Brian wished he could pull himself out of this emotional isolation as if by sheer force of will, the same way he had learned to endure the rigours of academia and become skilled at his chosen instrument.

 _Is there something wrong with me?_ he wondered. The answer was obvious, but no less disheartening.

“Brian!” Freddie called out from the front of the stage. “If you’re not doing anything do you think you can fucking join in with us, dear?”

“Right,” he responded, standing up and making certain he was plugged in.

 

So many admirers in Vegas...they all thought of the Elvis movie. Brian recalled going to see those movies with his mum when he was younger, marveling at what he saw as the natural conclusion of an aspiration in rock n’roll - more girls than one could ever imagine knowing.

This place was utterly calamitous, vulgar and bizarre. But they loved it. As a collective they had begun to understand how different they were from other bands, and the outsider status they had both inherited and claimed meant that the outsiders they encountered upon their travels were potentially sympathetic to the world they had created with their music and their spectacle.

It was assumed that one could be whatever one chose to be in that jangling atmosphere, and regardless of the mishaps of the actual gig - unfortunately captured on film, but the total access agreement was honoured as always - the afterparty was replete with showgirls, magicians, female impersonators, and other local colour. And here before him was someone more than a bit ordinary and yet also containing that empathetic shine in her eyes, her face alight with what he perceived to be belief, adoration, desire.

So he held her in his thrall. It was as if he could see her turning transparent as he took from her what he needed.

She said she loved him.

On the face of it, how could he believe it? But he did. He _needed_ to.

 

 

(Interlude: January 1975)

Queen’s new manager understood that his charges were all demanding in their own ways and expected their mutual arrangement to include a surfeit of attention to their needs, large and small. So when the booking agent drafted a touring schedule for their next go-round of that distant shining New World across the pond - their previous sojourn so tragically interrupted the year prior - sensibly scheduling theaters and auditoriums for their debut as a headliner, he didn’t necessarily expect that a pale-faced Brian May would be on his doorstep the very next day. And with nary a how-do-you-do or friendly natter over a cuppa, said client got right down to it.

“This is the preliminary schedule, correct?” Brian asked from the other side of the desk, his voice as always hushed but also clipped, as if attempting control over his emotions for some reason.

 _Why is he upset?_ Reid immediately thought, because that’s what Brian’s intense inquiry made him think of. Then again, it could be _anything_ , as they had already demonstrated their capacity for caprice, reasonable and otherwise. 

“Yes. There’s still some holes to fill, I reckon. We’re waiting to hear back from the bookers regarding some other cities.”

“We _must_ play New Orleans,” Brian blurted out, tapping his finger upon the copy of the telex they had all been given to review.

“To be honest, we’re not certain if the Deep South is a market you can crack just now. The regions are all very particular - I learned that from Elton’s first jaunts over there. Atlanta is fairly safe because it’s a major market; it seems most bands do well there regardless.”

“We did very well last year,” Brian insisted. “Consider it a personal favor, then. _Please_.”

 _How could you tell? How can a support act **really** know?_ But he considered that Brian appeared to be sensible, most of the time.

“All right, I will see what I can do, then. It may be a bit difficult finding a suitable venue, but -”

“We can play the same place we played with Mott.”

“Alright then, I’ll speak with the local promoter as soon as I’m able.”

“Thank you, I truly appreciate it.”

“Certainly, Brian - I want the band to be happy, above all things.”

A couple hours later the rest of the band stopped in, also wanting to discuss the itinerary, but more along the lines of marveling at the breadth of those venues they had placed a hold on thus far. And thus Reid considered it a fair question to pose to the others.

“Is there perhaps something more to Brian’s emphatic request other than a belief that the band goes over well in New Orleans?”

The three looked at each other, smirking, rolling their eyes, and then Roger grinned as he gave the answer.

“Yes, and her name is Deborah. A Southern sylph, she of silky blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.”

"But everyone calls her Peaches," Freddie added.

John laughed softly. “What did Ian say it was back then? The Big Sleazy?”

The others laughed at that recollection.

“Ah ha,” their manager replied in understanding.

“Yeah Peaches is quite a looker. Would have gone for her myself if she hadn’t walked right into Bri that night as soon as we came in the place,” Roger continued.

Reid knew the band’s visit to New Orleans had become established lore thanks to being referenced in one of their songs, as well as other stories which circulated among the crew, but he wasn’t certain he cared to understand how deep the connection ran, given that he knew it was better at times to practice a certain plausible deniability regarding the activities of his charges.

“Oh goodness, it just now came to me - what does he think he’s playing at?!” Freddie exclaimed.

“Not our business, Fred,” John gently chided.

“Or rather _unfinished_ business which is not our business,” Roger concluded.

“He’d better **not** call off the wedding!” Freddie grumbled. “I do so love a good wedding.”

“Oh lord,” Reid quietly intoned, placing his head in his hands.


	20. Scene Eighteen: Ain’t too proud to negotiate

“Liar” had been going over a treat - especially in New York, where they felt they had finally arrived, but in Houston Brian broke a string in the beginning and although they recovered quickly it was one of those occurrences which could easily sabotage the entire mood of a show. John’s bass run transition has been particularly nice, however. The rest of the set also had a few mishaps but not seemingly enough to ruin things altogether.

That didn’t stop Roger from picking a fight after the encore…

Various objects hit the wall, but he was careful to ensure none of them were directed at the source of his ire.

“You slowed down _again_!” he yelled at Brian. “Why do you keep doing that?!”

“I didn’t -”

 **“YES YOU DID!”** came the collective response. And he had no answer for it but to towel off and dress for their departure. The silence endured for relatively forever until finally they allowed Bob and the camera crew entrance and immediately switched on their public personas. They discussed the problems reasonably and presented a united front to the outsiders.

 _Business_ as usual.

The afterparty was scheduled to take place at the hotel so everyone was planning to clean up before having to appear. Brian ducked out before anyone could debate on the time they should turn up, walking toward the loading dock in silence as crew members swerved around him in the midst of load-out. He heard a percussive tread behind him but did not deign to turn around. Roger grabbed his arm from behind and pulled him over, out of the way of the stagehands rolling out the gear.

“When are you gonna let it go?”

“I don’t want to discuss it! Not now and never with you!”

“You were precariously close to blowing it altogether tonight. And you’d better explain yourself unless you want a grilling. Because you **will** get one.”

“Are you _threatening_ me?”

“I’m stating an eventuality. Look, there’s something very wrong and what sort of arsehole would I be if I just let you walk off the cliff?”

Brian’s hard green glare softened immediately and he laughed.

“Like The Fool, little dog and all.”

“You’ve never had a dog.”

Brian sighed. “I’ve given up, I swear it. I tried, yes, and it was a terrible conversation. But it’s over.”

“Famous last words.”

“No I mean it.”

“Two weeks to go, right? It’s not so bad, you survived this.”

“Then why does it feel so much worse?”

Roger leaned against the wall, sighing and running his hands through his hair. “Damned if I know. Well, I actually **do** know, you’re too fucking fragile most of the time, but we can’t change that, can we? But you’ve never let _anything_ trip you up, get in the way of what we’re meant to do.”

“And you’re absolutely right - I keep saying I’ll stop, but I can’t stop. Why can’t I just stop?”

Roger made a _come here_ gesture to Brian, who leaned in, frowning. 

“Because you _love her_ ,” Roger said softly. “Start with that. Figure out a way not to love her anymore. I mean, look what happened to me when I _really_ fell in love. Was like a hurricane hit my life.”

Brian nodded solemnly, recalling how shocked he’d been when Roger had told them all that he’d broken it off with Jo; and had done so for a woman he wasn’t even entirely certain would have him, but he was going to die trying. He swallowed heavily, considering the destruction which love had already wrought upon him.

“I can’t -”

“I know, Bri. I know.”

The business of their business continued, life ground on, all around them. He thought he might fall to the ground and it wouldn’t matter one whit. Their destiny was in motion, and he had already done enough to meddle with its’ course.

“Don’t you think it would be **more** cruel not to decide, one way or the other?” Roger asked him.

And Brian didn’t reply, thinking that most of the cruelty inherent in the situation had been directly aimed at himself.

 

“I thought you said you weren’t going to call me again.”

“I lied.”

“I guess once you lie, it’s easy to keep on lying.”

“How’s that working for you, then?”

He thought she might hang up on him, but he could hear her breathing.

“I heard it, on the radio.”

“What?” But then he realized what she meant. “Really? I’m surprised they’re playing that one.”

“So now it’s just a story, right? You musicians are all the same - something happens to you and you write a song about it.”

“It’s a _true_ story. And it’s not over; I tried to imagine it was, thought if I wrote about it then it would be. But it’s not. And I realized that I made the wrong decision.”

“Fuck you! You can’t tell me this now!”

“But it’s the truth!”

“It doesn’t matter! What are you going to do? You can’t make me the whore that you want to marry, you can’t do it! It would _kill you_ to act like that. You’re not like that. That’s what so fucked up about this whole thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, I would never let anyone think that -”

“You can’t stop people from thinking what they want to think. Guys never have to worry about that shit, but girls? Their reputation is _everything_. And you made your decision, Brian. Just like I made mine. You can’t come here and just expect -”

Her voice dissolved into a sob.

“We still love each other,” he said, attempting to be emphatic but sounding on the verge of tears himself.

“It doesn’t matter!” she said, nearly screaming.

“Come to Houston, please. Let’s talk about this, I’ll do anything you want me to do.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do! I’m so fucking miserable, all I can think about it how much I miss you.”

“I can’t, I can’t! Don’t do this to me, you fucking asshole - okay, okay, you _love me_ but it doesn’t matter!”

“Do you still love me?”

“ **Of course** I do! Why don’t you stab the knife a little deeper, Brian? Yes, I love you, and when it mattered I would have done _anything_ for you. But you went right back to her, didn’t you? So I got the message. And now, just like that fucking song that you wrote, that I have to hear for the rest of my fucking life, it’s too late!”

She tried to hang up the phone, kept banging it against something, he could hear her crying, and then she managed it somehow. He clutched the receiver to his ear and listened to the busy signal for a while, half-numb, half-hopeful.

She loved him, and his heart beat in a strident fashion... _not too late not too late not too late_.

 

The party had bored them all, and somehow it was decided that they would move it over to Freddie’s suite. Freddie put on the only record he appeared to own, _Aretha Live At Fillmore West_ , and suddenly he was center stage, belting out “Respect” as if he’d found his true calling, with Joe, Roger and John serving as his Prima Donna backing singers/dancers. Roger had produced the rainbow wig he’d found in New Orleans, and amidst this moment of sheer silliness Brian found himself wanting to cry again.

Freddie carried on as the band slid into “Love The One You’re With,” declaring “It’s our true anthem, darlings!” The room could not contain their gyrations, spilling out into the corridor, everyone dancing as Freddie gave a note-perfect impersonation, no doubt borne of hours upon hours of absorption of Lady Soul’s performance. Brian swayed and laughed to see Roger attempting to match Joe and John’s choreography.

Freddie danced over to him. _Don’t be angry, don’t be sad_ , he sang. _Don’t sit there moanin’ about the good times ya had. Because there’s a boy, standing right next to you. And you don’t know what he wants to get into, check it out._

Everyone laughed, expecting Brian to be embarrassed, but he played along with Freddie’s camp delivery and kissed his cheek with equal pizzazz. Freddie moved on to another target and Brian sagged against the wall, all at once inside the whirlwind and completely apart from it.

He went to his room and picked up the phone. It was almost as if the party was inside with him as well, but he clung to the _burr-burr_ tone in his ear in order not to completely drown in the revelry.

“Hi sweetheart. What? That’s coming from Fred’s room, he’s playing that Aretha record he loves so much. What are you doing? That’s good, you should take it easy. But listen, do you think you’d like to come to California for the last shows? You think you’d feel up to it? No I’m not joking, why would you think that?! Yes, this **is** your husband on the line. Well, I may have said that but I’ve changed my mind, right? We can do some Christmas shopping as well, hmm? We’ll be in Los Angeles on the 18th, so you can come the day before and get settled in. Then come home with us on the 23rd. Yes I know that’s only a week away, but just ring Dad and he’ll look after the house like he always does. Do come, luv, last chance for a lark! Yeah? Okay, I’ll ring the office now and sort it out. Love you too, sweetheart.”

After the additional phone call Brian ventured out into the corridor again to find Roger and John drinking beer and John was wearing Roger’s wig.

“Rainbow Man one and two?” he asked, grinning.

“Tweedlebum and Tweedlebee,” Roger slurred, then giggled.

“What happened to our floor show?”

“The management, so they all _retired_ , one supposes,” John replied.

“V is coming out to Los Angeles, isn’t she?” Brian asked him.

“No, she said it’s too close to Crimble, she wants to stay home and get it all ready.”

“Dom?” he asked of Roger.

“Nah, she’ll be with _Maman et Papa_ , of course. I may be _allowed_ to visit after Boxing Day, but of course Mum will kill me if I don’t come directly to Truro first.”

“I asked Chrissy to come.”

“And was she in favor of that proposal?” Roger asked.

“She was...pleasantly surprised,” Brian replied.

John smiled. “They always love it when it’s not their idea.”

“That will be my prezzie, then, I think.”

Roger looked aghast. “Oh you’ve **got** to give her a present, Bri. If she doesn’t have something to open on Boxing Day you will be less than worthless.”

Brian looked at John, who shrugged. “I always give _several_ presents, just to be sure.”

“Duly noted, then.”

“What is happening tomorrow? Or is it today already?” Roger asked, stretching himself out on the carpet.

“It’s today. Fred’s having the doctor come ‘round, I think, to check his nodules again. Otherwise nothing that I can recall.”

“Good. I plan to be unconscious for an undetermined period, then.”

Brian and John snickered, but none of them moved from their informal grouping until they spotted others further down the corridor: people returning to their rooms to sleep off their bad choices, or smugly luxuriate in their good ones.

Brian didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but as soon as he lay down he closed his eyes and dropped into yet another memory.


	21. Entr’acte: A passionate impasse

1975: Don’t I love her so?

“Hello beautiful.”

“Who is this?”

“Have you forgotten me so easily, then?”

She sighed, and it all came back to him in an instant. He nearly cried out at the jolt of emotion rising within him at the sound of her voice, even more arousing than his memories of it.

“How could I?”

“Well, because when I told you how I felt you said I couldn’t know, we’d only just met.”

“Thank you for all your letters, are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, I’ve finally recovered. How are you? I wondered if I’d reach you, since you never wrote to me, or called me. I would have accepted the charges, you know.”

“I thought...well, I thought it might be for the best.”

“I want to see you. We’ll be there next month.”

“Oh...I…”

“Please. Take pity on me, at the very least. But I **do** love you.”

“Three days, Brian - how could you know in three days?!”

“Then what were you playing at? I could see it in your face when we made love.” His voice held equal amounts of belief and embarrassment in the assertion.

She sighed again. “I wasn’t trying to fool you. It was wonderful, you’re like some kind of knight from a fairy tale or something, but, you’re not quite _real_.”

“What?!” He laughed at the thought of such a thing.

“Not for me.”

“I’m pinching myself, and it hurts. So I’m real enough. _Please._ If only to talk, but I can prove it to you. In all this time I haven’t stopped loving you. Didn’t you get the record? And the notes I put inside?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“And?”

“It was a really romantic thing to do. But I just think that you’ve got yourself worked up over something that may not be real. I mean, what if we don’t know what to say to each other?”

“We will. Look in my eyes and you’ll know it. I promise you.”

Another sigh. “And what if I **do** love you, then what?”

His heart sped up. _I knew it!_ he thought. “Then we’ll find a way.”

She gave in, but it sounded as though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

 

1976: Be mine, almost-Valentine

Anyone who was anyone touring Northern Ohio stayed at Swingo’s - like the Riot House, it held a reputation for mischievous possibility to rival any Satyrical enclave. It was an hour’s drive from their venue of the evening but there was no argument regarding their lodgings. Even one night at Swingo’s was worth the fatigue, traffic, and bleak weather one might have to endure to get there.

A certain guitarist was aware his wife was not particularly in favor of this decision, but she also knew better than to argue. Band business was sacrosanct. So once they traversed the noisy and crowded lobby and an equally crowded lift, she walked in the direction of their room with her head down, seemingly lost within her own thoughts.

“Are you coming then?” Chrissy asked, unlocking the door.

“Gonna have a drink with Rog and the braintrust,” - their satirical moniker for the executive crew - “you don’t have to wait up.”

“Don’t make a racket when you come in, then,” she said, handing him the room key.

There was enough attendant noise - both on the floor and in the whole of the edifice itself - to mask his specific movements, but Brian proceeded down the corridor to another door and knocked twice.

“What?!” Roger demanded from the other side.

“It’s Bri, let me in.”

“What’s the passphrase?”

“Sod off!”

“That’s not it!”

Brian extended two fingers at the door and huffed.

“Whatever gesture you’re making, that’s not it either!”

“Oh - how many bones are in the human foot?”

“No that was the old one, we changed it.”

“C’mon you fucking wanker!”

“That’s not it either - but it’s something you know the answer to, I reckon.”

Brian, always up for a puzzle, took a moment to consider what that question would be. Not astronomy or physics - that would be too easy. And it would have to take the piss, whatever it was. After further consideration, he snapped his fingers.

“Ah, I’ve got it - who invented the clog?”

Roger opened the door, grinning widely.

“Why hello Brian, how are you this evening? So kind of you to drop by.”

“I **don’t** know who invented the clog, in point of fact. It happened a very long time ago.”

“So it wasn’t Hans Brinker then?” Ratty called out from the bed, where he and Crystal and Jobby were engaged in a poker game.

“Nah, that’s the lad what was plugging up the dikes and such,” Crystal said with a grin.

“I thought the dykes didn’t want no male appendages in ‘em,” Jobby cracked, and they all laughed.

“Look, I need your cupboard,” Brian said. “You _owe_ me.”

“I don’t owe you a _cupboard_ ,” Roger shot back. “What are you playing at?”

“I can’t be seen with her!” Brian whispered emphatically. “Not here, of all places.”

“She’s _here_? Are you mad? Really truly off your head?!”

“It’s the only way! She can blend in here, and it’s Valentine’s Day - or it _was_ , any road. It’s important to American girls to show them you love them on Valentine’s Day.”

“So you **are** admitting she’s a groupie, then.”

“Don’t you dare -”

“Climb off it, fuck’s sake! So what are you scheming, lover boy? If she’s here why don’t you just go to _her_ room?”

“I said I’d be in _your_ room so I can’t _leave_ your room - you get me? We’ll go in the cupboard, you lot carry on with whatever you’re doing.”

“How are you going to manage _anything_ in there? Fairly certain you’ll be defying the laws of physics if you try.”

“Don’t trouble yourself over that. We’ll be quiet, I promise.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Because she’ll be asleep as you’re such a crashing bore.”

“ _She_ doesn’t think so - just let me get on with it then.”

Roger shrugged and returned to his seat to carry on with the game. Brian went over to the phone and dialed the front desk.

“This is Brian Manley, I believe there’s a young lady there awaiting my call, can you put her on the line, please?” After a moment’s silence he said, “Room 1273,” and hung up the phone. He then proceeded to take everything out of Roger’s closet and stacked it on the adjacent bed.

“Mind you don’t wrinkle my garments, Percy,” Roger commanded.

“Are you gonna lock yourself in and demand a longer solo, then?” Crystal asked and everyone nearly fell off the bed with raucous laughter.

“No, that’s _your_ man who throws tantrums in that fashion,” Brian replied dryly. “Just pretend we’re not here. But of course I _am_ here if in the unlikely event someone else should stop by looking for me.”

There was a soft knock at the door. Brian opened it and quickly pulled his visitor into the room and then into the closet, shutting each of the doors. They heard voices for a moment but silence followed just as quickly.

“Turn up the telly,” Roger said. “Not hearing anything is _worse_ , somehow.”

The game continued on for some time, but each of the participants was later to remark that their concentration was not up to the usual standard, even as they couldn’t hear a peep from the room’s unseen temporary occupants.

 

1977: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“I’ve got a _perfect_ idea.”

“Why is it not on the itinerary again? You said it would be this year.”

Brian sighed. “I can’t - it would be too obvious what I was doing.”

“I’m getting tired of this, Brian. I don’t think I want to be your dirty little secret anymore. All these crazy ideas you come up with -”

“Listen, I’ll fly you into Toronto - Roy and Barbara are coming to the show, and you and Barbara look like you could be sisters. So even if you turn up in a photo or two, everyone will assume it’s her.”

“What? Am I supposed to _pretend_ I’m somebody else?”

“No, nothing like that - but I won’t have to worry about hiding you from the photographers.”

“I’d rather come to New York.”

“Uh...you can’t. I’m really sorry, luv.”

“Why not?!”

“She’ll be there. And my parents too.”

“I never should have let you talk me into all this!”

“What else could we do? I love you, I can’t live without you.”

“You seem to be doing just fine most of the time.”

“I’m **not** , not really. All I do is think of you. All I do is want to write songs about you.”

She sighed, and it sounded more like a sob.

“I love you, but I feel like I’m in love with a shadow. It’s like I keep telling you: you’re not _real_.”

“And like I keep telling **you** : I’m real enough when I make love to you, aren’t I? _Aisuruhito yo_.”

He always had her, then. His eternal answer was those declarations of love she could hear anytime she wished, no one else in the world knowing their true inspiration. _His_ words, even if another voice sang them. And they tended to catch her at odd moments: once when she was walking to work down Toulouse, among the drag queens and the tourists and the working stiffs. The doppler of a passing car carried the exclamation in the thick redolent humidity... _Don’t I love her so? Yes she made me live again!_ And she had to stop her stride for a moment, her heart beating like a bird caught in some narrow trap.

 _It’s better to know this kind of love than never to know love at all_ , she told herself. Every time. Because that's what **he** would say too.

“Is there any other show I can come to?”

“That’s why I came up with this idea, it’s the best way. And we can have the day after as well.”

“If that’s the game then I **do** want a photo. You and me. Even if you have to lie about it for the rest of your life.”

“Yes luv, okay - but it’s not as if you don’t have photos already.”

“A _real_ photo, not just a Polaroid. A real photo that's out there for everyone to see.”

“So you’ll come?”

She made a noise of frustration. “You _really_ have to ask?”


	22. Scene Nineteen: Sex, death, failure, the occasional betrayal and inescapable entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I attempting to intimate that Freddie was Billy Strayhorn's spiritual heir? Absolutely.

Bob: You **do** write about death rather a lot, don’t you?

Brian: (blinks and scratches nose) I prefer to think of it as the impermanence of humanity. We think we’re so important, but -

Bob: We’re not.

Brian: We’re just a blink, you know? When you acquaint yourself with Deep Time, time on a cosmic scale, then you begin to understand that there’s something beyond our comprehension.

Bob: You understand that you **don’t** understand.

(Laughter)

Brian: Our brains are so small. It’s part of the reason why I think it’s so important that we have to _try_ to understand each other. We’re all we have. Because if we all die out, for whatever reason, then the cosmos will go on as it always has. And we must respect _all_ life, not just humans.

Bob: Do you see yourself as the social conscience of the band?

Brian: (embarrassed grin) No, Rog is far more politically-orientated than I am. He keeps up on the news. It turns my stomach, generally. It would be silly to say I’m a philosopher but I _do_ see myself as philosophical. And that influences my songwriting. I think about relationships in that way, what is the greater cost of our attachments, given that nothing lasts forever.

Bob: Heavy stuff.

Brian: (scratches nose) It’s all that Hesse I read in uni, I s’pose. Mum used to say I was thinking beyond my years.

Bob: I find that a couple of your recent songs are really quite sad.

Brian: The others get frustrated with me sometimes, when they think I’m being broody. But that’s always been a part of me, from when I was a boy. I still haven’t gotten over the death of Pixie, my cat - that’s what “All Dead, All Dead” is about.

Bob: We were there when you were recording it; why did you decide that you would sing it rather than Freddie?

Brian: I wanted it to be beautifully sad, and Freddie has a more consistent delivery than I do. Rog too, come to think of it. My voice is a funny old beast and I didn’t think I had written it in the right key for me to sing. But then Johnnie said that I should sing it because it’s _mine_. Some songs are just _yours_ , and you **have** to be the voice. “She Makes Me” was that way as well, it would have been ludicrous to have Fred sing that one. 

Bob: I think it has the right tone, as it were, when you sing it. With Freddie’s version, as beautiful as it was, it didn’t feel quite so mournful.

Brian: When we listened to the rough mix, I realized I had to change some of the lyrics just for that reason. I think at first I believed I was trying _merely_ to write a sad song, rather than a song with personal significance. And Fred agreed that it should be me as well. He’s a cat fancier too, of course - he’s got quite a herd of them now.

Bob: The revised version is just the thing, as you say. And your guitar orchestration is beautiful.

Brian: (smiles briefly) It’s my elegy for Pixie. We had said we wanted to avoid such trappings, but they were all very understanding when I said I wanted to have that on there. Freddie said it made him want to cry, which pleased me no end.

Bob: So you’re all supportive of good ideas, then?

Brian: Quite. We all have different ideas and we try to respect them, even if we may not understand them at first. I remember Rog grumbled at me about there not being any drums on “We Will Rock You” but once he got the concept of what I wanted to do, then he was all right with it. And of course he can play on it now when we perform it.

Bob: His drumming on “It’s Late” is superb, makes me think of Bonham with those fills.

Brian: Yes! Rog really came through for me on that one. I wanted very heavy, punchy drums to add to the dramatic feel, and he’s a whiz at those kind of fills, he has such great articulation. I remember that impressed me so much when we first met - he could play great fills and accents even as young as he was. He was really _together_ , moreso than any other drummer I’d ever seen. It disheartens me, at times, when critics seem to focus more on me and Fred, because Roger is truly a great drummer, full-stop.

Bob: Is it a chemistry thing, between the two of you? Others have told me that one develops a sort of psychic connection with one’s bandmates over time, and you just know what to play and how to play it.

Brian: I don’t believe in ESP or anything like that, but I will say that if I tell Rog what I want, he gives it to me. Or he keeps trying until he’s able. Generally though, he understands me immediately. So I suppose one might say that’s the _development_ of chemistry. Even though we row _quite_ often, we **can** communicate perfectly when we really try.

Bob: It’s the trying that’s the difficult part, then?

(Laughter)

Brian: Always! But it’s _always_ worth it.

 

 

“How was that, then?” Freddie asked after another take.

“Hang on, dear.”

Brian leaned over the console and switched off the talkback.

“That stays off, please,” he said to Mike and Gary.

They nodded their assent and Brian went into the live room. Once inside he looked through the glass at the control room and saw the others were talking among themselves, taking a break to ingest whatever drink or snack they desired, smoke yet another cigarette, visit the loo or the lounge, or make a phone call.

“You’re getting closer to what I want, it’s very nearly there. I appreciate you being so patient with me,” he told Freddie, as the other sipped water from a styrofoam cup.

“You’d do the same for me, darling.”

“What it needs -” Brian took up the pages of lyrics from the music stand, “ - is in that transition back to the third verse, just before Rog plays his fill...a cry of anguish.”

Freddie’s eyes went wide, his eyebrows shooting up to his fringe.

“A _literal_ cry? A scream?”

“Of frustration, anguish, when you’re at your wit’s end and ready to throw yourself out the window.”

Freddie placed a hand on his bandmate’s arm. “Bri, really now, talk to me. I **can** do it but this isn’t quite acting, is it?”

“It’s my agony,” Brian quietly replied. “I want it in there. A bit of blood on the tracks, as it were.”

“Somehow I imagined it was, but I was attempting to keep to our rule.”

“Sod the rules! But yes, it’s about me wondering if I should just end it with Chrissy.”

“But -”

“I made a rather _different_ decision, of course. But there was a night - several nights, in fact - when I knelt on the floor and cried. _Screamed_ , as you say, because neither road seemed entirely the right one to take and I was suspended in the Hell where I imagine people who get what they _think_ they want are put into. I thought it might be better if I were dead, then I wouldn’t have to make a decision.”

“How dreadful that must be, when you are given something you can’t actually have.”

“That’s _life_ , Fred. We can’t hold it, it’s not really ours.”

Freddie looked in those eyes which made him think of a forest. The pain of Brian’s contemplations was never truly too far from his gaze. Years ago Freddie had come to the conclusion that Brian was mildly depressed most of the time, and had learned to negotiate around the occurrences carefully; part of his overall camp and silliness was an effort to ensure Brian didn’t sink too deeply into that attitude, if possible.

“I can’t decide which is worse, sometimes: learning what it really means to love, the kind of love I’d been wanting all my life; or losing it because someone else says they love **me** more than anything, even as I can’t understand why or feel it the way they do.”

“It must have been _awful_ ,” Freddie murmured.

“I thought if I wrote about it then I could let go of it.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I couldn’t **not** do it either.”

“Here,” Freddie said, taking the sheets of paper out of Brian’s hand, “let me try it then. Just that part, to see if I can manage it, alright?”

“Thank you.”

Freddie squeezed Brian’s shoulder. “We shan’t speak of it again, dear.”

“It means a lot to me, that you understand my pain.”

Freddie smirked and wagged a finger. “Now didn’t I just say -”

“Right then dearie, carry on.”

“Let me have a moment to prepare, right?”

“Of course. I’ll turn the talkback on, just give us a whistle.”

Brian left the live room and opened a can of beer from the case they kept in the control room. To hear Freddie express his own anguish by proxy was going to require alcoholic fortification. _Copious_ amounts of alcohol.

 

 

Bob: I wondered if you think “Spread Your Wings” might be a hit?

John: (embarrassed smile) It’s so difficult to tell, isn’t it? I don’t think it will be in the same way as “You’re My Best Friend” was. But then again, it might be the type of song which does well in America.

Bob: As “You’re My Best Friend” certainly did.

John: Quite. It’s not the type of song I would normally write. I like pop songs, and so I write pop songs. It was Freddie who begged me to try something different, said we had too many sad songs and that I should write a _right stomper_ as he put it. I laughed at him and said that was Brian’s job. And then he said, “Do _try_ to write some rock n’roll, Deaky, I think it will be good for you.”

(Laughter)

John: Actually both my songs are about the same thing.

Bob: Are they, then? What is that?

John: Not allowing anyone to determine what makes you happy but yourself. I think when you give someone else that power, it’s dangerous. It’s interesting that “Who Needs You” and “It’s Late” are sequenced together because they’re polar opposites.

Bob: But they’re both about the end of a love affair.

John: True, but in Brian’s song, it’s as if the entire world must be destroyed along with the affair. In my song, the guy just realizes that he’s wasting his time and he’s going to take his life back. In “It’s Late” the guy asks to be set free, but don’t you think it sounds more like they both have to _die_?

Bob: (thoughtful pause) I don’t think I realized it was that extreme?

John: You were there, weren’t you, when we were recording it?

Bob: Yes, but not all the sessions, I don’t think.

John: (chuckles) I suppose I shouldn’t laugh because that song was so important to Brian, but Rog made a joke about it sounding like a suicide pact, and it was certainly _intense_. It took us a bit to get it together for the track, but when we did - Brian had this look on his face, there was something _possessed_ about his expression. But we felt, Rog and me, like he was pushing us where he wanted to go. And that was right off the cliff!

Bob: It _sounds_ quite intense, I will say.

John: It really does. I’ve noticed some stations here are playing it, and they’re not wrong, one supposes. It’s the kind of thing American audiences want from us, that really heavy rock.

Bob: Back to your song; what inspired you, other than Freddie’s edict?

John: Funny enough, it was the last time we were here, at the beginning of the year. I heard a Bob Seger song on the radio and I thought about how I liked that there is always a story in his songs. Brian writes songs like that too, of course, some more obvious than others. But it’s always about something happening to someone - something that should, or something that didn’t, or something they want to happen. And then we were in one of those bars, you know, with the topless dancers - they’re in every city it seems. And I thought about the people who work there, they get to look at the girls all day long, don’t they, but none of them look particularly happy doing it. And so Sammy stepped into my imagination - I remember I wrote the first lines on a napkin right then and there -  
_Sammy was low_  
_just watching the show_  
_over and over again._  
He’s this guy who isn’t a part of anything around him. So I thought I’d give him a pep talk. But the song itself didn’t come out till we’d gone in the studio months later.

Bob: It is rather inspirational, but it’s interesting because you have these opposing voices.

John: We all know what that’s like, don’t we? The people who don’t believe in us. And so I’m saying, in the chorus, forget all that and go out to find your destiny.

Bob: You think the kids need to hear that?

John: I think _people_ need to hear it. Hopefully it will find the ones who do.

 

Bob: Freddie, I know you don’t particularly care to discuss your songs -

Freddie: It’s so **boring** , darling! 

(Laughter)

Freddie: I almost prefer that people should think what they like for the meaning.

Bob: - so I thought perhaps we could discuss what you believe are the merits of the other guys’ songs on this album.

Freddie: Oh dear - it might end in tears!

(Laughter)

Bob: Are you willing to risk it?

Freddie: Oh why not? I love Deaky’s songs, I always love his songs.

Bob: He said you urged him to write a rock n’roll song.

Freddie: Yes well, we should always try different styles, and that was the whole point of this album, to do things differently. And I love that song, it has a great story, don’t you think?

Bob: Yes, I told him it was very inspirational.

Freddie: The vocal we ended up using was a later take, my voice was rather fucked but Deaks liked it, he said it was emotional in just the right way.

Bob: It’s a bit odd that there’s no backing vocals.

Freddie: That was another difference we decided to try. Not so many harmonies. Or just harmonizing with ourselves - I did that on “Get Down” and Brian did it on “Sleeping” - I don’t like that song at all, but he loves the blues, disciple of Clapton and all that, and so why not, you know? The others were fine with it. But there was another song of his that we all said “no” to because it was too much like the others, another heavy blues thing.

Bob: What did you think of “It’s Late?”

Freddie: (laughs) Oh goodness, isn’t it dramatic? But I think it’s quite good, actually. Took a lot out of me to sing it, I can’t go at it that hard when we play it. No screaming like on the record. But we worked at that one quite a bit, it was rather draining on all of us. That one and “Champions” are probably the most Queen-like, you might say, there’s a grandeur there.

Bob: Speaking of blues, I did want to ask about your song - you recreate the cabaret mood so perfectly, it’s a wonder.

Freddie: Oh I try, dear. (laughs) Well I’ll tell you, last year Roggie gave me a Billie Holiday album for my birthday and I just adored it. I got hung up on one track, it was “Good Morning Heartache” and then sometime later I was out at a club with some friends of mine, it was very late, and they played Sarah Vaughan singing “Lush Life” - do you know that one?

Bob: I do, though I believe I’ve only heard Nat King Cole’s version.

Freddie: Ah well, you’ve got to give Sarah a listen, she’s divine! It’s very cynical, you know, the whirlygig of romance and all. And so I wanted that quality, that world-weary cynic sitting at his piano at 4:30 in the morning musing on his foibles and wishing for the thing he can’t have. But it’s just little old me, trying to be Billie or Sarah.

Bob: You are also divine.

Freddie: Oh go on then! (laughs and looks down in embarrassment)

 

Bob: So your songs on this record are rather more punk-y, aren’t they?

Roger: I’m the rocker in this outfit, you see. Fred tried to talk me into writing something soft, but I’d already done that with “Drowse” and so I was ready to be loud again.

Bob: I was intrigued by “Fight From The Inside” because it seems to me that you and John have written about the same thing in a manner of speaking - attempting to break out of old patterns of behavior.

Roger: I had this idea to sing about the relationship between, say, us - what we represent - and the people who buy our records. No bullshit, on both sides. When it comes down to it, that’s what I am - a picture on someone’s wall. I’m not God, you know, I’m a drummer!

(Laughter)

Roger: I think some in this business might forget who or what they _really_ are. And the kids, they should know that on some level, they’re just there to give us their money.

Bob: That’s fairly dire.

Roger: It’s fairly fucking direct, isn’t it? More than the punks are saying, even. But we deliver, we’re not exploiting anyone because we give them the best we’re capable of. It’s not wholly cynical, but it’s saying: “Look, you’ve got to let go of that illusion and face up to how you **can** change things, if you **want** to change things.”

Bob: Do you believe it’s a necessary message?

Roger: Absolutely.

Bob: Brian intimated that you are the social conscience of the band.

Roger: Well I can think of worse things, certainly. (laughs) And I’m probably those too.


	23. Scene Twenty: “Welcome to our cornucopia of delight!”

Brian tied his tie, trying not to look too closely at himself in the mirror, where he could see fatigue and sorrow shadowing his features.

“You about ready, missus?” he called out.

“Just a tic,” Chrissy answered from the bathroom. “Got to put my face on, don’t I? Which tie you wearing?”

“The paisley.”

“No - wear the striped!”

“It makes me look like a bank manager.”

“It goes with the suit,” she insisted.

“Not _everything_ has to match,” he retorted.

“Who are you - Roger Taylor?” she teased, and Brian laughed. He decided to humour his wife and wear the striped tie she had picked out for him on their shopping trip the day before.

She emerged in a dark jersey type of dress he had urged her to choose because it made her look glamorous, her long chestnut hair gleaming, a modest amount of makeup applied, and Brian thought to himself: _If I were a better man, I would find you quite beautiful and be glad of it._

“That dress _is_ lovely, aren’t you chuffed you let me talk you into it?”

“A bit tight, though,” she said, plucking at her waistline.

“It’s form-fitting, that’s what the salesgirl said, and you’ll be able to wear it again later.”

“I’m already starting to feel like a cow,” she grumbled.

“You’re only _just_ showing, luv,” Brian noted in a gentle tone. “I reckon you think everyone can _see_ what you _feel_ , but you know that’s not true.”

“So I’m **not** hideous then?”

“Never a day in your life,” he assured her, and kissed the top of her head. She straightened his tie and smiled. 

“You look spiffing, Mr. May, shall we be off?”

Peter awaited them in the lobby, and they took a hired car over to the restaurant which Elektra had rented for their party - record company employees, promoters, press, management, staff and crew, friends and acquaintances, and celebrities on the guest list - all to celebrate their American touring triumph, the strong sales of the album, and the general holiday spirit. The others had all showered and changed at the venue and thus were already at the party.

“What’s on for the 'do then, Pete?” Chrissy asked, and Brian found himself smirking, thinking that it might be just as well Chrissy didn’t want to drink now because that Yorkshire accent of hers only tended to get broader and deeper as the alcohol flowed and the night wound on.

“It’s quite fancy, they tell me: a full Moroccan spread for the lads as they like it, with veg options of course - ”

“Thank you very much,” Brian cut in.

“ - and belly dancers!”

“Oh and they like that **too** , don’t they?” she jibed.

“Might want to take some notes, Chris,” Brian said with a grin.

“Oh you’ve gotten all the _undulating_ you’re going to out of me, you cheeky bastard,” she shot back and they all laughed.

“Oh my!” Peter exclaimed, “Sounds like it will be an interesting night, then.”

“Be honest with me, Pete,” Chrissy said, laying a hand on his arm.

“Oh goodness, here we go,” Brian rejoined, rolling his eyes.

“Bri says I’m hardly showing, but you **can** tell, right? I feel positively bovine!”

“Chrissy my dear, you are _glowing_! That’s how we all know, I promise you.”

“See, what did I tell you, missus - you look _splendid_ ,” Brian insisted.

“Did you have a few belts while we was gettin’ dressed, then?” she teased.

“It’s nearly Christmas, I’m just getting in the spirit.”

“It’s so very odd to see all the decorations and such in the sunshine,” she noted, looking out the window at downtown Los Angeles.

“We’ll be back in dreary Blighty soon enough.”

“Don’t you _want_ to go home, then?” she asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into her tone.

“Home is wherever you are, luv,” he said and kissed her hand. Her expression softened, but not enough that Brian believed he was safe from scrutiny. Above all things, he did not want her to see what squirmed inside of him.

 

“Cold as a witch’s tit out here,” Roger griped.

Brian had requested that the band drive from Las Vegas to San Diego so that they would be able to pull over for a time once they were in the desert proper for a bit of stargazing. He thought he would be the only one interested and thus had decreed his car be last in the caravan; and so was surprised to see Roger and John’s cars pull off as well once they had crossed into the Mojave National Preserve.

“My word,” John murmured, looking upward. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen the stars quite this bright.”

“Isn’t it wondrous?” he breathed. “Millions of miles away and yet - their light reaches us still.”

Brian walked from the shoulder of the road out into the sand and scrub, binoculars around his neck as well as his stereoscopic camera. He shone a torch ahead and around him, looking out for rocks and shrubs, and glimpsed the eyeshine of a few nocturnal creatures as well. 

“Can you all cut the lights, please?” he asked of their drivers and shut off the torch as well.

In the absolute darkness, the gleam of the heavens above stunned them all into contemplative silence.

“Is that the Milky Way, then?” John asked after a time, pointing upwards.

“The cloud-like formation, yes,” Brian answered. “Look, you can just make out Mars there - see how it’s a bit reddish?”

John followed the line of Brian’s arm, looking at where his finger was pointing. “Only just, it’s very faint.”

“It was likely brighter at dusk, as it was ascendant.”

“Where’s Mercury, then?” Roger asked. Now that their eyes had adjusted to the darkness he could just make the others out, and Roger was shivering inside his fur coat but being a good sport nonetheless.

“It’s ascendant at dawn, so we wouldn’t see it till then, along with Jupiter.”

“Is that Venus, that really bright one?” John asked.

“Yes it’s always the most visible.”

“First star I see tonight,” Roger recited.

“Very good, Rog. Now let’s wait a moment and see if we spy any meteors.” He put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the sky.

“It does make you feel small, doesn’t it?” Roger said in a near-whisper.

“Almost entirely meaningless,” Brian said, and his bandmates couldn’t decide if he was being serious or sardonic. Probably both.

“Can you imagine what the first people must have thought of stars? Of the movement of the days and nights?” John mused.

“Up on that mountain I could pretend that there was no civilization as I watched the stars night after night. It’s easy to understand why they created stories to explain these things. You stare right into the face of it and you begin to believe there **is** something behind it.”

His companions lapsed into silence, awed by the notion of an ordering principle. The wind blew frigid and the stars glittered cold.

“I don’t -” Roger began and then gasped. “Yes, right there!” he pointed, and the others just managed to glimpse a flash which streaked green and then bright white as something fell to Earth.

“Didya make a wish, Rog?” John asked.

“Nah, too quick.”

“Ah, there’s Andromeda,” Brian exclaimed, and pointed. The others attempted to follow where he directed.

“What is it?” Roger asked.

“That smeary thing there, it’s faint but it’s the next nearest galaxy we can observe with the naked eye.”

“I don’t think I can make it out,” John said, and Brian handed him the binoculars, guiding him to the spot. “Oh wait, ah okay, _wow_.”

“My turn,” Roger mock-whined and Brian handed him the binoculars.

“You’ve seen it before, Splodge, you just don’t remember.”

“When?!”

“After we watched the Moon landing at your mum’s and you demanded I show you the planets. Much fainter than it is right now, though.”

“We **did** go out and look at the sky, didn’t we? Didn’t we think we might see a craft orbiting above?”

“ **You** did, and then I reminded you that we likely wouldn’t see Apollo all the way from the Moon. Don’t you recall, though, we tried to see if we could view Skylab orbiting after the launch?”

“Good lord, how long must this mania of yours go on?!”

Brian laughed and took back the binoculars. “You’re just as fascinated, don’t try to deny it.”

“Never quite so, Percy, but I’m frozen now so I bid the Universe _adieu_.” Roger turned and carefully made his way back to the road.

“We’d better get along, Bri - it’s a long drive,” John said, moving in the direction of his car.

“Just a few more minutes; you lot go on ahead; I promise I’ll catch up.”

 

_I got Deaky and Rog to look at the stars with me tonight. We reminisced of all the other times I’ve dragged them out into the night and been their tour guide through the cosmos._

_Do you remember the second night, we drove out to Lake Pontchartrain so I could show you the stars? There wasn’t much we could see, but you were so patient. You listened to me prattle on for an hour and you asked questions, I honestly believed you were trying to see the cosmos through my eyes._

_I believed you loved me. I believe it still._

_When we got on the plane for Boston I slept so deeply, and so we landed and awaking I honestly believed I was still in New Orleans for a moment, all wrapped up in your bed with you. That’s when it really started to hurt, when I realized I wasn’t._

_Ah, the calls which came that first day when I went home with you - “Brian, what are you doing?!” and I kept reassuring them, “I’m safe and sound, don’t worry,” but no one quite believed it. They’d thought I’d truly gone mad._

_I was sick and none of us quite believed it was real. But my body settled it once and for all._

_I’ve never said this to anyone, but sometimes I think maybe I was being punished for trying to be happy. That being happy was never my lot in life. I am here to make other people happy, but never to presume I could have any portion of it for myself._

_And oh you did make me happy. So happy that if I had died, at least I had known that touch of Heaven. At least I’d had a taste of it and could recall how very satisfying it was. I could understand why people risk everything for love._

_I’m not meant to have you, I know that. But the wanting never stops. Even as I believe it would be better for my sanity if it did, I don’t ever want to let go of how it feels to want to love you._

_I’ve read science-fiction novels about parallel universes, where some things are different, some are the same. History is changed from what we lived. We know so little about how the Universe operates and I don’t believe it’s so foolish to think there is a world where you and I are together, and this is what has made us believe it here and now. Across time, those echoes of ourselves resonate within us._

_Whatever I have, or don’t have, there I have you. And that mirror self, he knows a contentment I might never possess. And I envy him for it. Bitterly._

 

“Pete, I am putting on a _pageant here_ , I must have full cooperation - now how are the costumes coming along?”

“I’ve got Dane and the other lady working as fast as they can, right? And I’m going to Western Costume tomorrow like you said. We might be too late, but hopefully they haven’t rented out the whole place.”

“No expense spared!”

“Of course, Fred, it will all work out in the end.”

“Ratoise, how is my sled coming along?”

“We painted it this morning, so now it’s gotta dry till Thursday,” Ratty informed his boss.

“And it’s got the crest on it?”

“Uh, as well as we could manage. We made a stencil from one of Rog’s bass drum heads.”

“Amateurs, I’m dealing with amateurs here!”

Ratty frowned, but wisely kept silent.

“Go!” Freddie ordered him with a wave of his hand and the other scurried off, worthy of his moniker.

Across the room, the three men most closely associated with him tried very hard not to call attention to themselves lest they get yelled at too. But alas…

“Brian!” Freddie exclaimed, “What have you worked out for your solo?”

“I thought perhaps I’d put a bit of ‘Deck The Halls’ in there, alright?”

“Yes that’s fine. Tomorrow we’ve got to rehearse 'White Christmas!'” We should have done it tonight as well. Deaky _promise me_ you will be recovered come Thursday! One might think you almost did that on purpose!”

John grimaced. “Can think of better ways to injure meself, Fred. As long as I keep my arm in the sling offstage then it’s fine.”

“Doesn’t have to be _perfect_ ,” Roger asserted, only to be met with the imperious glare of the Diva.

“Yes it does! This is our first Christmas pageant and it has to be _wonderful_!”

They all nodded emphatically and just as they’d hoped, some other crisis caught Freddie’s attention and he dashed away.

“Fred does so love to plan things,” Brian noted.

“Is he going to put us in costume as well?” John asked, looking suspicious.

“I’d like to see him try!” Roger declared.

“Ssssh!” Brian cautioned. “Let’s hope he’s done yelling at us for the time being. I reckon it’s just the crew who will be tortured.”

“That’s what they’re there for,” John cracked, receiving a laugh from his bandmates.

Roger rubbed his sweaty hair vigorously. “My god, it’s almost over!”

Brian and John both nodded, John looking relieved and Brian looking sad.

“S’pose I should get going back to the hotel to dress. Hopefully the missus has been getting ready.”

“Is she feeling all right, then?” Roger asked solicitously.

“Yeah, just thought she needed a nap since it will be rather a late night,” Brian replied.

They walked out to the venue’s back entrance, and Roger put a hand on Brian’s shoulder.

“I thought you should know - you did the right thing, I reckon.”

Brian gave him a barely recognizable smile.

“It’s Christmas, so perhaps there’ll be a miracle. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and be a better man.”

“Well you’re alright,” Roger said, then grinned.

“I’m fairly wretched, but I might be forgiven even so. Maybe not in this world, though.”

“What?!”

“Never mind,” Brian said, raising a hand in farewell. “See you at the party.”


	24. Coda: Once I loved a butterfly (New Orleans, October 1978)

Brian May, who seems to be the true organizer of the night's carnival, is cornered by persistent Japanese newshounds. "It's wonderful," he keeps saying. "It's so nice to be back."  
\- Mark Mehler, In Praise of _Jazz_

 

“I want people to be talking for the rest of their lives about this party,” Brian declared.

“So you think if you throw the biggest party in town, she’ll have no choice but to turn up,” Freddie asserted.

Brian tried to suppress a smirk, and failed. “Possibly.”

“I knew it, I knew it!” Freddie exclaimed, grinning and tapping the table.

“Well we _all_ knew it, didn’t we?” Roger jibed, rolling his eyes.

“So total and utter bacchanalia, correct? We can’t have anything less,” Freddie insisted. “The streets will run whatever color with various bodily fluids!”

Roger and John collapsed under the weight of their snickering. Brian’s smirk became more pronounced.

“ _Anything_ goes,” he said, with a look which seemed to dare his bandmates to debate his commitment to such a notion.

“It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it, dears?” Freddie teased and they all giggled like schoolboys. “You do realize, though, don’t you Bri, that the press will be _everywhere_.”

Brian shrugged and his bandmates shook their heads at his perceived foolishness.

Their attention was pulled away from the discussion by the arrival of tea and biscuits and John leaned over to Brian.

“What good is making a choice that’s not truly a choice?” he inquired, those lichen-colored eyes narrowed in scolding mode.

“Remember the impact crater?” Brian replied.

John looked confused for a moment but then nodded. “Right.”

“Here’s a plot twist: it was there all along.”

Brian turned away from him and John knew whatever he might have to say against such fatalism would not truly be heard.

 

_It was after six and dawn was just beginning to penetrate the narrow spaces within the Quarter as they walked hand-in-hand down the street as if they were the only ones in the world. The city was taking on its’ daytime guise, with its’ occupants scuttling off to wherever they might need to be, the scent of food and that particular miasma of this place which was both sweet and sour, fetid and inviting, hanging over it all. There was music coming out of every building and he stopped right in front of a club, its’ door wide open and a porter toting a bag of garbage towards the refuse container in the alleyway._

_“Ah, I love this song, it’s the most perfect song in the world!” he declared, taking her into his arms and swaying. People moved around them, clearly used to such whimsical behavior in these environs._

_“Why?” she asked. “Why is it so perfect?”_

_He laid his cheek on top of her head and smiled. “Haven’t you ever felt like that? Smiling on the outside, crying on the inside?”_

_**Outside - I'm masquerading** _  
_**Inside - my hope is fading…** _

_“Are you crying right now?” She looked up at him with concern._

_“No,” he said, his smile growing wider. “This is the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.”_

 

 

“Well that was _rude_ ,” Brian declared, hanging up the phone with an angry motion.

“What happened?” Roger asked.

“I was on the phone with Anne Nightingale and she fucking hung up on me in the middle of a sentence! And **I** was the one being interviewed!”

“Well that’s the Beeb for ya, isn’t it?” John noted.

The humidity of their general environs had somehow found its’ way into their communal dressing room as well and everyone was sweating, fanning themselves with whatever they had to hand.

“Is the driver back with my shoes yet?” Freddie asked, sipping from a cup of hot honey and lemon.

“Ratty said he’d bring them in straightaway,” Peter responded, pacing with phone in hand, frantically attempting to wrangle the last few details of the album launch party.

Roger began his ritual of strange noises to warm up his voice and after Freddie downed his concoction he joined in too. Brian put his hands over his ears and retreated to the tuning room. John stretched out on one of the couches and closed his eyes.

“Johnnie you look positively sweltering in that getup,” Freddie teased.

“We’ll never get past the monochromatic look at this rate,” Roger quipped, regarding himself and his striped waistcoat in the mirror.

“It’s Halloween, so I suppose black is always fitting,” Freddie asserted, checking the line of his leather pants in an adjacent mirror.

Crystal entered with a worried look on his face.

“Your slippers ain’t back yet?”

“No darling,” Freddie replied.

“That crowd is a bit mental,” he noted. “Trip was on the walkie-talkie saying he fears for his life now.”

“It’s Halloween,” everyone else in the room replied in unison.

“I just hope they don’t start tearing up the seats,” Crystal said, running his hands through his hair. “Can do a fair bit of damage to _everything_ that way.”

“No, nothing _bad_ is going to happen,” Brian declared, re-entering the room.

“You heard the man,” Freddie said with a sardonic smirk.

“Oh no, _nothing_ shall come between that man and his destiny,” Roger teased in an overly-dramatic voice.

“Can you please just fuck off,” Brian said, dabbing at the sweat on his face with a towel. “Crystal - tell Jobby I want **two** fans on my side tonight.”

“Can’t take the heat, eh?” John said, still supine with his eyes closed, and they all cracked up in a rather nuanced reaction to such an obvious joke.

 

 

The party was many things, but the absolute din of it was something Brian hadn’t been suspecting as they entered the proceedings behind their jazz band heralds. The publicist and his co-conspirators had done just what they had commanded: created the most licentious party ever on offer in the modern world. Everything was available, nothing was forbidden.

As the hours passed Brian kept moving, kept searching, and every time he passed the hired band whatever they were playing caught his ear. They weren’t very good, but people were dancing because that was the spirit of the thing. After two o’clock, he had seen _everything_ , made himself witness it all because this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted to show her that he was capable of understanding the character of the place she came from, and thus, the place which he loved.

But what he **truly** wanted wasn’t happening.

And then he heard it, and if he believed in such things he might have taken it as a sign.

_I’m just a clown -_  
_since you put me down._  
_My smile is my make-up_  
_I wear since my break-up with you._

He prayed, then. Unaccustomed to such rituals generally, but the veils between worlds were supposed to be thin...he prayed for her to walk through the ballroom door and straight into his arms once more.

Some time before three Roger found Brian in the midst of a gaggle of Japanese journalists. He politely extracted his bandmate from the cluster.

“So I take it she didn’t show?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re planning to stay all night then? You **do** realize we have a press conference at 9am?”

“Nine? I thought it was 10.”

“The restaurant insisted we move it up because they need to prep for lunch at 10.”

“She might still come - she might be working.”

“Bri, we have emptied nearly every club in town to put on this knees-up! If she’s working they would have let her go early by now. And you made certain that everyone who might know her has told her about the party. There were flyers _everywhere_. **_She knows._** And so you might have to accept that she didn’t want to see you again.”

“You’re surprisingly sober, Rog,” Brian observed, because he didn’t want to concede Roger’s point.

“I _was_ drunk for a while, but then I got over it.”

Freddie swanned by, arm-in-arm with one of their favorite journos.

“Darlings, let’s all have a wander! Sylvie and I are going to battle to see who pulls the most.”

“Well you’ll both lose that wager,” Roger teased, baring his teeth at the two. “Bri and me are gonna go see what’s left of the nightlife.”

Freddie raised his eyebrows at Brian who responded with a slight shake of his head. Freddie patted his shoulder in sympathy.

“ _Bon chance, mes amis_ ,” he said in farewell. “Come along, my dear.” They walked out with Paul faithfully trailing behind.

The two patted all pockets to ensure they had necessary items, and made to depart as the clock was striking three when they ran into their record company overlord in the lobby.

“I think we actually pulled it off, lads!” Bob enthused. “This will certainly go down in our history, much less in this town.”

“Mr. Mercer, so good to see you again,” Brian greeted him, despite having seen him no less than an hour before.

“Brian, you **can** call me by my Christian name, you know,” Bob noted, and Brian inclined his head.

“Our Bri, he’s ever so well-mannered,” Roger gibed. “Well we’re off, then.”

“Wait, I can’t have you wandering around out there! It’s Halloween! In New Orleans!”

“Oh what’s two more freaks, then?” Brian said with a grin.

“Speak for yourself, tosser!” Roger exclaimed. “I’m a perfectly lovely boy.”

“Besides, it’s All Souls Day now,” Brian noted. “A time to honor all which have passed from our view.”

“No that’s tomorrow,” Bob corrected. “Today is All Hallows Day.”

“Ah well, thank you for the clarification,” Brian replied and walked out of the hotel and into the street. As Halloween was one of the more lively observances in the city, revelers still thronged Roosevelt Way, some in costume, some fearlessly displaying their true identities. He stood and watched and felt that emotional connection within rise once more to be here, in _her_ city.

In those three days she had shown him her city, and everyone he had met greeted him with genuine kindness and understanding. They didn’t size him up for what they might get out of him, they didn’t judge him for his choices. And they accepted him because Peaches made it clear that they were together, and thus because he was hers, he was also kin to them.

His heart still resided here, at least part of it. He **had** to find her.

“Bri, wait -” Roger called out. “Bob, come on then if you’re coming. We’re going over to Toulouse.”

“Didn’t think you remembered where it was,” Brian said when Roger joined him.

“How can I possibly forget? We’re _still_ playing that bloody song, aren’t we?”

 _From love immortality seeks to enshrine_ , Brian thought.

 

Three hours later they returned to the hotel, his companions insisted that they each needed a nap before further obligations required their attention. The party was winding down, stragglers stumbling out into the dawn, staff entering to begin the task of taming the mess. Brian felt hollow-eyed and light-headed but couldn’t bear the thought of sleep despite his fatigue. And so when she appeared before him he almost believed her a hallucination. But then she walked across the lobby and into his arms and he said the first thing which came to mind.

“You missed one hell of a party.”

“So I heard.”

 

“ - After the _tenth_ person told me they saw you and that you were looking for me, I guess I freaked out.”

He squeezed her hands and looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I s’pose I got a bit carried away.”

“I didn’t want to see you that way, in front of everybody.”

He had invited her up to his room, but she insisted they stay downstairs. They went into the ballroom and found a table relatively unsullied for their reunion.

“I’m so happy you decided to come.”

“ _Of course_ I wanted to. I’ve never stopped -”

“There’s a hole - an abyss - in my life. It’s the place where I didn’t do what I should of. That song, ‘that fucking song’ you called it, we played it last night. Every night I’m reliving my pain by playing that song because that’s what I deserve. But the song itself is about the choice I didn’t make.”

“I know. I’ve had all this time to figure it out. But I think you were right after all.”

“No, I wasn’t. When I got out of hospital I should have flown right back here and got down on my knees to you. Convinced you we couldn’t live without each other. That’s the choice I’m referring to.”

“Oh.” Her voice was hushed, she looked down at their clasped hands. “I thought you meant that you should have left her. You got swept along in doing what you thought was right, but it was better not to prolong it.”

“That **is** what the song is about, yeah. But the deeper meaning -”

“Brian, look, I don’t want to talk about that anymore. A part of me is always going to love you but we can’t go back there. We were barely there as it was, it was more like a dream. It’s easier to think it was more than it actually was.”

“Then why do I feel like a part of me is missing? I have everything I could have possibly wanted, one imagines, but when I think of it I feel utterly empty. This past Christmas I had a moment where I genuinely thought I might as well die -”

“Brian!”

“I did. I wouldn’t have done anything, but none of it mattered. All I could think about is that I should have been with you.”

“We never really had a chance to know what we _could_ have been. That’s all.”

“My love, you don’t understand, it goes deeper than just falling in love with you. It was _all_ wrong, what I’d been taught to believe about my feelings, my desires. It’s all screwed up, and being in this -” he nodded his head at their surroundings “ - hasn’t helped anything. But I might have known what real love is like with you. Don’t you think it _could_ have been possible?”

She let go of his hands so she could brush tears from her eyes. “Maybe.”

“And I’m _always_ going to feel that way. You have to know that.”

“Can I see him?” she whispered a moment later, her voice also full of tears. “Do you have a photo of -”

Brian took out his wallet and showed her a photo of his proudest achievement. “I took that just before we left for the States.”

“He’s so precious,” she breathed, looking at the image as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

“He favours his mother, which is certainly a mercy.”

She looked into his eyes, and her eyes sought to drown him once more - thinking he had only seen a color so clear and true one other time in his life, from atop that mountain, taking in a sight which never failed to inspire his awe of the natural world. 

“You will always be so beautiful to me,” she said, quiet conviction in her raggedly emotional tone.

“I’m sorry I ever made you cry,” he said, placing his fingertip upon one of her tears. “I was so horribly selfish, I know.”

“I knew what I was doing,” she said, and took his hands again. “I don’t regret it, even if I might sound like I do.”

“ **Never**. Never for a single moment. That part of me, living in the abyss, he’s always going to think he should be with you.”

“Brian please, you’ve got so much to live for now. You said you were screwed up - well you’ve got to make sure he _isn’t_.”

Brian brought her hands to his mouth and kissed them. “You’re right, and I want to, I honestly do.”

“So if you **do** love me, then make sure you do that for me.”

“I’ll try, I promise.” He looked towards one of the nearby windows, now opened to the day. “This city, it makes me feel like I am capable of love.”

“She does that, she inspires us to live life to the fullest. You’ll dream of her, I bet, years from now.”

“I dream of **you** now.”

“Then that’s the only place we can be together,” she said, and her eyes were as bright as he remembered them to be.

“There’s a world where I deserve you,” he whispered, squeezing her hands and putting his forehead against hers. “It’s just not this one.”

 

 

Hours later, while they were being interrogated during the last gasp of their press junket, they found themselves all amused, punch-drunk with fatigue and the residue of various substances, cagey regarding their particular activities during the bacchanal. But Brian considered his state of mind during the interminable questions and posing for photographs and all the rest of the publicity rigmarole.

Redeemed? Not quite. 

Hopeful? Maybe.

Loved? Definitely.

He might cry on the inside again later on, but for now, it was all smiles.


	25. Afterword

I don’t normally write afterwords for my stories, but hey - it’s the holidays, amirite?!

To begin with, I fully admit to an obsession with this era of Queen’s history, and with _News of the World_ and “It’s Late.” I’ve always considered Brian to be surprisingly candid in eventually confessing his issues with infidelity - there’s a direct through-line from “It’s Late” to “Too Much Love Will Kill You” 15 years later. I understand that some people feel rather squicky about “real” RPF, so I appreciate those who give me a chance because I am overwhelmingly compelled to attempt to portray the actual people and events to the best of my abilities. It’s my niche, I guess. But I do take a few liberties even so, of course, as I am sadly not omniscient. But even if something is not _real_ , I hope that it is _true_.

Queen is, of course, one of the most well-documented bands in the world - and I am grateful to any number of writers, webmasters, archivists, collectors, and other enthusiasts for their fandom works professional, academic, and armchair-authoritative, without whom it would have been a bit more challenging to create a framework which meets the standard of historical veracity I normally demand of myself (in addition to my own long-established love for and knowledge of this band which crowds my brain ** _*_** ). I’ve been reading Queen fanfic for a long time now and I will admit that _BoRhap_ made me want to finally try my hand at it, but I couldn’t have gone down this road without all those who came before me, and they have my gratitude always.

( ** _*_** Like, who could have guessed that Brian _and_ John were actually fellow stereoscopic photography nerds? Only in this band…)

I find it fascinating that 1977 really was a watershed year for the band as well as particularly well-documented. Besides the two versions of the ‘77 BBC-produced career documentary available ( _Made In America_ and _Rock The World_ ) I am also grateful for the fandom compilation video _Queen in 1977_ created by the OfficialQueenRomania YouTube channel which appears to include if not all, then certainly most, of the extant media coverage footage from that year; as well as those recordings both audio and video of ‘77 shows available online, which were incredibly inspiring in terms of my creative process. If we can agree that Queen finally won their American audience through their efforts in 1977, then live bootlegs from those tours certainly illustrate in one aspect how and why they did so.

And thank the Universe all these things exist - if we can’t have a time machine we can at least have these recordings, because Queen was **magnificent** to behold. Even those recordings which aren’t the best quality still have so much power, to my eyes and ears, in terms of how ambitious and professional the band was at that time.

Also a very grateful tip of the hat to Gary Taylor’s excellent book _Queen Touring America_.

A special thanks to my dearest Cee who told me: “I think you should!”

To all those who took the time to leave a kudo and/or comment: THANK YOU VERY MUCH! I appreciate it more than I can ever adequately express. I believe in parity, and if I’m giving you something which makes you want to give back to me, then I’ve Done The Thing we all aspire to do. And to those who read and hopefully enjoyed...I thank you all. :)


End file.
